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TO . 


JAMES I. DAY, 

A lYue cnirl Tried Friend, 

THIS WORK IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED 

BY THE AUTHOB. 


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9 




BERENICE 



/ 



i 


MRS. E. M. KEPLINGER. 

'v 

(QUEEN OF HEARTS.) 


The deeds, of reasonnblc men— 

As if enerraven -with pen of iron grrain 

And laid in flinty roek, they shand unchangred— 

If good, in eharacters of love; 

If had. in letters of vindictive fire; 

God may forgive, but cannot blot them out.— Pollock. 




NEW ORLEANS: 

MISS S. M. HAIGHT, PUBLISHER 
1S7'8._ 




Copyright Secured. , 


















v'A,-' 'i’’--’ 





CONTENTS. 

— :o:— 


3300K FIRST. 

CHAFrElJ. PAGE. 

I. — Midni<;ht and '‘All’s Well” !) 

IJ. — “Orpah kissed her, but Ruth clave unto her 15 

III. — “What if this man were Boaz ?*’ “ or Memphistophlcs ?” US 

IV. — Eaves-dropping, — In sense with mind magicians 20 

V. — A short letter from the “Clover Queen” 88 

VI. — Fair promises, made in the street paved with good intentions 41 

VII. — Entering, with Faint Heart, forbidden ground. — No fields of Enna I 40 

A^'ITI. — Old scenes in new lights. — Sister Barbara 54 

IX. — Asleep under the Linden trees G4 

X. — The face upon the easel. — The artist. — Italian Saints 74 


BOOK SECOND. 


I. — Long-looked for, come at last 85 

II. — Circe t>4 

III. — “Queen of fantastic realms.” 100 

IV. — Skeletons behind the door 100 

V. — The little adder 113 

VI. — “Want a cab, ^Miss ? 129 

YIl. — Opening of the Will 137 

VIII. — Stature, and stage eflect 142 

LX. — The astrologer’s house 149 

X. — The “obstinate and incredulous” girl 158 

XI. — A waif on the world. 107 

XII.— “Noah, my brother” 176 

Cardave’s visit and its results 187 


^ » - •- -vr*;,;---- ■■■•-^ *■ -•; •-; -*•,-, -r --ry-. V - _ . - - ,_ ,. , 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTKK. PAGE. 

XIV. — ^Recriminations, remorse and love.... 203 

XV. — Nemesis -. 209 

XVI. — Behind the footlights.. 220 

XVII. — Cleopatra and “the Cassar” .". '. 241 

XVIIL— The prett}' Swiss cottage 24*? 

XIX. — Pilgrims of the Seine 255 


BOOK THIRD. 


I. — When virtue parleys it is near surrender ‘ 269 

II. — Soiled doves in gilded cages 281 

III. — What became of the fairest woman in Paris 291 

IV. — Withered garlands. — The St. John’s head 297 

V. — The bridal of Victorine Aubrey 209 

- VI. — Ruth’s inheritance 319 

_ VII. — The “Garden of Gethsemaue” 32.5 

VIII. — “You give me husks and bid me feast” 331 

IX. — ^No light in Heaven to make night holy. 338 

XII. — The janitor and the magic key 346 

XIII. — ^I'he last day i 361 

XIV. — Blount Marah’s visitors. — Old grey beard 368 

XV. — Stray leaves gathered in Autumn 383 

XVI. — The bourne.—Life’s rewards 392 


Owing' to the liurried innnner in which iny work has 
passed throngh the press and niy inability to give it the 
revision required, I beg the indnlgence of a kind public 
towards the nninerons errors, typographical and others, 
which have cre])t in, some of which even a lengthy erratum 
has not provided for. 


Respec-tfnlly, 


E. M. K. 


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>1^ 


CHAPTER I. 


MIDNIGHT, AND “ ALL’s WELI,.” 

“ Let US retrace our steps. They are sleeping-. Perchance they 
dream of home or heaven.” 

“ We shall not be seen. Step softly; We shall not be heai*d. 
Until the day davni we are slaves of the — ” 

“ Of the lamj) ?” 

“ Of the ling. We have the ring of Oyges.”' 

‘‘ A dangerous power. "WTiat if we are tempted ?” 

“ To abuse it? We shall not ; for in the jialace we have entered 
there is no king nor progeny of kings. The children of Poverty and 
Sorrow dwell here.” 

Here we may behold the tiiumph of Faith, the perfect work of 
Patience, the blessed beneficence of Charity !” 

“ The little figure, clad in white, flitting about like a Fay or Faii*- 
lee is, I imagine, one exemphfication of the work which Faith, Char- 
ity and Patience have made perfect.” 

“ After you have seen and heard, you may divine, remembering* 
that the lichest harvest may be latest in ripening. The sower may 
never reap; yet withal, the fi’uit bears evidence of the seed.” 

The eye of Omnipotence reveals our actions and then* motives ; 
discerning among the many busy ones the Marys Avho have chosen 
the better part. 

“ Ah, the little figure is neither Fay nor Fairlee. It has a sweet, 
sdver-toned, lipiiHng voice.” 

Eunice, Eunice, I want to talk to you.” 

“ Well, speak. Mliat do you w’-ant to say?” 

“ Sister Barbai-a might wake up and hear you ciying.” 

“ I don’t care if she does. Is that all you have to sa}" ? Who are 
you ?” 

“ I am Ruth, the little gui who begged them not to scold you for 
cr>ing so loud to-day.” 

1 


10 


BERENICE. 


“ You Avere very kind ; but I didn’t care for the scolding.” 

■“ I thought YOU did. I hate to be scolded.” 

Ruth, come close. Let me whisj^er to you. I want to tell you 
something.” 

“ Go on ; I’m listening.” 

“ I’m going to run away from here.” 

“ Where are you going to ?” 

“ I have told you all I can tell you. Please go back to bed.” 

“ You will not cry any more ?” 

“ I can’t help crpng. My mother has been dead just two days, 
and you say, ‘ Don’t cry.’ I wish I would die this very night.” 

God will let you die when He wants to.” 

■“ MTiy did God take my mother from me ?” 

“ Ask Sister Barbjira ; she can tell you.” 

“ Sister Barbara ! I’ll ask her nothing. I hate her ; and besides, 
I don’t believe she knows anything about God.” 

“ I like all the sisters. Sister Agatha is an angel.” 

Y^ery much of an angel, when I heard her, before we went to 
bed, talking about me to another sister !” 

“ What id she say ?” 

“ She said” — “We have been sorely tried to-day with the children, 
<especiaUy so with the dark-e3’ed Italian looking child. Her screams 
iind cries attracted eveiy one that passed.” 

That’s me. I’m the “ Italian looking child.” 

“Well, was that any hann? YMu did cry very loud.” 

“ Yes it was harm; the}" are cruel to tell me not to crv; I am going 
:awa\" fr’om them.” 

“ Where can you go ? You have no home.” 

“ You teU me that too. The sisters tell me that ; I know’ I Inive no 
home.” 

“ Then 3’ou hiid better stay here.” . 

“ In this mean, hateful place ?” 

“ I do not find it hateful. I think we ought to be thankful for a 
shelter, w"hen w’e have no one to take care of us.” 

“ I am veiy wicked, I suppose. I am not thankful for being brought 
to such a place as this. I wish I w’as good like 3’ou. Have j'ou been 
here long?” 

“ I think I w’as born here.” 

“ You little goose ! No one is born in an as^ium, but the}’ die in 
them and catch sore heads, and sore hands and thev all get so 
U-g-l-y.” 

“ Am I ugly ?” 

“Not very. Your clothes are ugly, though.” 

“ I am going back to bed. Please don’t cry any more, because its 
against the rules to make noise in the dormitoiy.” 


33ERENICE. 


11 


“ I will cry, if I choose, about my mother. They can't hinder me. 
<to back to bed and let me alone.” 

Sister Barbara fi’om her watch tower — her Pharos — which overlooks 
the human sea, where not a wave is known to wrestle with its feUow 
wave. She has seen and heard — she approaches. Ruth in her own 
bed looks as guileless as if she had never been awake in her life, 
when she was expected to be asleep. 

The penalty here and hereafter attending the violation of rules, 
receives the accustomed comment from sister Barbara. Ruth says 
to herself impatiently, “The rules, the rules, there is nothing but mles 
in this house from morning to night.” 

The days of early autumn bring a joyful surprise to the chilcfren 
of Poverty and Soitow. 

A place to play — a wonderful place — a clover field. They are in 
the wildest glee, running about up to the ankles, aye to the waist in 
the long waving gi’ass. In the race of joy, as ever, some warring one 
puUs the check rein. The mamier of passing thi’ough the gate- 
way of the new Eden, causes grave consideration. Sister Barbara 
determines to march them into it and through it. ShewdU also allow 
them to sit in couples. 

“ After the march, you may jump the roj)e or you may make 
crowns with the (lover if you would rather,” said sister Agatha. 

“ We would rather jump,” rejfiied all at once. 

“May Ave play ‘catch her?’” asks the veriest little hoyden among 
them. 

“ Yes, children, make tlie hour as pleasant as possible, only do not 
fall or hurt each other.” Then foUoAVS the truly feminine small 
malice : 

“ If we were ready to be angels. Sister Barbara would take 
off our wings and march us before her to Heaven.” 

“ M'on’t we run and have fun in the clover field, in spite of her!” 

“ Clover, indeed 1 There’s more than clover here. The SAveetest 
little yeUoAV fiowers and white floAvers and long blades of gi'ass, 
striped like ribbon.” 

“ And beetles,” said another. 

“ And morning glories and pretty-by-nights.” 

“ These are four-o’clocks.” • 

“ Don’t you hear a funny noise in the gi*ass, Ruth ?” 

“ Yes ; gi*asshoppers. I used to hear them chirping all the day 
long. I Hke gi-asshoppers.” 

“We may make plenty of wreaths, there is so much clover.” 

“ But where is the thread to tie them ?” 

“ AVe can tie them Avith the long grass.” 

“ I have some ravellings saved that Avill do,” said a thrifty, blue- 
eyed German child. 


12 


BERENICE. 


“ Oh, my ! Here’s a honeysuckle vine trailing on the gi^ound, 
through the grass ; and here’s ivy creeping over everything, and even 
up to the old brick wall.” 

“ Isn’t it funny it didn’t find its way over to our side ?” 

“ I don’t think amdhing would go over there that could keep 
away.” 

“ And besides, Sister Barbara would say, ‘ Ivy, its against the rules 
for you to come here.’ ” 

“ See, Margaret Hays, here’s a little flower like a star.” 

“ And a lady bug. I’ve got it !” 

“ Lady bug, lady bug, fly away home ; your house is on fire ; A our 
children — Oh! my; its gone.” 

And so, poor little one, has one of life’s happy hours. 

The child Avith the dark lustrous e5"es and pale, sad face joins in 
these plays, sometimes with earnestness ; but often, in her happiest 
moods, a sudden change of feehng comes over her. She throAvs oft', 
impatiently, her clover croAvn, no longer “ Queen,” as they hke to 
make her. Frequently, she and Ruth, apart from the rest, spend 
the whole play hour finding four-leaved clovers.” 

“ Did you get your aaIsIi ?” asks Ruth, Avhen nine days of patient 
Avaiting has passed. 

“No, indeed, I didn't. AVhat (lid you Avish ?” 

“ Why, of course, that some rich lady Avould take us aAvay from 
here. I Avanted to go -to my mother.” 

“ To die ? How Avicked you are.” 

“ I would rather die than hve, and if you had remembered your 
mother, so Avould you.” 

The play days in the clover come no more. These are sad days, 
for Avinter reigns triumphant. Tlie morning bells ring clear and 
loud. The inexorable voice that bids them arise to face the cold, 
harsh A\Inds, shivering, hungering and heari-hungry, too, for love, 
mortal love, mother’s loA^e, so like Divine. 

Our Avorld is, to Sister Barbara, the Dead Sea apple ; its ashes are 
ever on her lips. To their complaints and confidences she replies in 
her text words : 

“ ^ly children, your need is the grace of God. Pray fiu' this bless- 
ing, for Avith it AviU come resignation, Christian foriitude and perfect 
peace.” 

“ Sister Barbara talks through her nose,” Avhispers one. 

“ It is Avhat Sister Barbara says, not Iioav she says it, that we are 
to mind,” ansAvers one more reverential than the rest. 

“ Do Ave never get anything Avithout praying for it?” asks one, Avho 
invariably investigates the theological questions propounded. 

“ Yes, we do;” ansAvers Eunice, Avho is not naturally deAmtional, 

We didn’t pray for the clover field.” 


BERENICE. 


13 


You had better ask Sister Barbara why we got that without pray- 
ing. I expect she knows.” 

Spring comes, and to one inmate of the house a great change. 

A stranger wanted to see Ruth Ward. This is the rich lady long 
wished for, brought perhaps, by the clover charm thinks Ruth. 

The “ rich lady” scanning the sweet, patient face with a satisfied 
smile, asks in persuasive tones: 

“Would you hke to go out of the asylum?” 

“ Yes ma’am, but — ” 

“ But what. Tell me your wishes now, for I ought to know them 
in time.” 

The thought of leaving Eunice, causes a moment’s hesitation. The 
lady asks again: 

“ Do 3^ou not wish to go with me ?” 

Projects flit through her mind in that moment of time while she is 
fashioning her reply. 

Of course, the lady wiU be glad to have Eunice too, who is so 
bright and so pretty. She answers accordingly’' : 

“You are my little girl, now. I am very glad. I shall send for you 
to-morrow.” 

There is no dehght in the answering glance. Tears are dimming 
the soft gray eyes which in their inner sight see nothing to cheer 
her heart. She hastens to Eunice. 

“ I am going out of the asylum to-morrow. Eunice, A rich 
lady came for me, just as I wished with the clovers”. Eunice 
starts, exclaiming, “ Oh my, what shah. I do ! You are going away 
from me, I shall be left alone in this dreadful house.” 

“I am sorry I promised to go. I’ll see the lady before she leaves 
the parlor. I will tell her that I won’t go, that she must take both of 
ns or neither.” 

“ Do not tell the lady any such tiling. I would leave everybody, 
anybody to get out of this prison. All that made me try to be con- 
tented was because you were mth me.” 

Her lips quiver, she is playing a paid which she cannot sustain. 
Ruth endeavors to cheer her with the prospect of her effectual in- 
tercession with the “ rich lady.” 

“ Eunice don’t giieve, I will kneel at her feet and implore her to 
take you, too. I will tell her that we have always loved each other 
so dearly.” 

“ Kneel to any lady ! kneel for me ! indeed you shall not. I wdll 
never force myself upon any one. Please teU me who Avould want 
two orphans?” 

“The lady might; I can try. I mU ask Sister xigatha to keep me 
here if you can not go with me.” 

Ruth is listening for the door bell with dread. Had some unfore- 


14 


BERENICE. 


seen interposition prevented her stepping into tlie carriage, she had 
so often wished for, she would have been a happy child. Eunice in 
turn tries to be brave, striving to nerve Ruth for the moment of 
pairing. 

In an unnatural voice \rith an un\isual pettishness or bitterness, 
she says: 

“ You are going away with a rich lady. You will hve in splendor, 
always riding about dressed up so pretty, and I’ll be here wearing the 
old poky bonnet, and these hateful clothes, listening to Sister Barbara 
or saying jirayers aU the time. I ought to cry, but I won't. I’m very, 
very glad you are going.” 

“ Oh Eunice, do not say that, you are not glad, look at me and tell 
me so. You can not, you are bhnd with tears.” 

“Wliat a pail’ of babies we are! Not tit to be orphans.” 

“ TeU Sister Agatha good bye, I can not speak to her. Eunice, 
Eunice I don’t want to go away from you.” 

“You must go, it is too late now to stay.” 

Ruth passed out of the gate. As she took her seat in the cjamage, 
she glanced at the upper windows. The sick ones kissed their httle, 
thin hands to lier. She waved them adieu. The httle wizened faces, 
old in infancy, were beautiful as angels to her. 


CHAPTER II. 


“OKPAH KISSED HE;R BUT RUTH CLAVE UNTO HER.” 

After traveling many a mile the neighing of the thed horses 
indicate that rest is near. The road seems a silver hne through an 
emerald ground work. On the highest slope of a gently undulating 
country, Ruth observes a spacious and elegant dwelling with wide 
verandahs. The carriage passes through the open gateway into a 
dense grove. Perfume floats upon the breeze. The orange trees 
are in bloom, theii* white bloosoms are gleaming tlmo ugh the cluster- 
ing fohage. 

Isaac opens the carriage door, telling her in a kind way that 
this is where she is to live and that she had better nin up the steps, 
and pull the bell, and that then’ she will see the ladies of the house. 

Her cramped and trembhng limbs can scarce support her as she 
slowly reaches the top and places her hand upon the bell. 

The seiwant Avho admits her evidently expects her coming. She 
hears her say something about the “asylum child.” 

It is the first time she has heard herself so designated. She won- 
ders if she ■\\tII always be called so. 

There is no time to tliink of the matter, the girl returns so 
([uickly. With httle deference in her manners, she bids Ruth follow 
her. The splendor of the siiiTOundings is far above her imaginings. 
The walls are covered with paintings, and every niche or corner is. 
filled with some rare ^^'ork of art. 

“ This is the room,” said the servant, throwing partially open the 
door. “ Go in ; you need not rap. Mrs. Gault expects you.” 

Ruth hesitates. The lady is sitting in a sold of reverie, seemingly, 
expecting no one. How splendid the room is, thinks Ruth. A soft, 
pearly hght, passing through clouds of lace, makes the place seem a 
creation of her fancy. She has not long to contemplate its loveh- 
ness. A soft voice is bidding her to “ ‘Come in.^ I am glad you have 
arrived, my child,” said the lady whom she had seen at the asy- 
lum. Drawing Ruth towards her, taking oft' her sun-bonnet, and 
trying to push back the stubborn ends of hair from off her broad, 
white forehead, she impresses a kiss upon her lips. AVith a caress- 
ing gesture of her white hands upon the well-formed head, she 
remarks : 


k; 


BERENICE. 


“ You have lovely hair. AVe must let it grow. The uiiiforin di-es.s 
shall be 23ut out of sight. I hate it. I have some jiretty clothes for 
you in yoiu- room. I suppose you like new clothes.” 

“ I think I liave alwaj^s worn asylum clothes ; but I don’t know.” 

The lady clasps her hands tightly, and bills into a train of thought, 
while Ruth is busy scanning the suiToundings. In a few’ moments 
she exclaims : 

“ All, me ! I had forgotten you, my child. Are you not tmed ?” 

“ Not very. I was tii’ed when I lirst got out of the carriage.” 

A^ou are liungTv. Children are alw ays hungiw.” 

“ I am not.” 

“ You had better then go to our room. Return as soon as you 
have changed your dress. I have much to say to you. You will 
lind your room at the end of the gallery.” 

Ruth is happy. The new’ phase of her life appears so fair. The 
lady is so kind. She w’ould hke to know* what w ork she will have 
to do ; she w’onders whether the lady will receive Eunice ; she will 
l)e sure to ask her when she returns to her presence. So, perhaps, 
she w’ould, had the lady not been kneehng when she retuimed. 

Ruth wonders, until she remembers the lioiu* of the Angelus. A 
younger lady enters, looks at Ruth earnestly, almost mdely, as she 
crosses the room and passes from it, Avithout a Avord. 

A large iiainting attracts Ruth’s attention — a garden of pahns and 
olives ; a full moon is set midAvay in the silver s%’; its pale light falls 
upon a figure in the foregTound ; the face expresses resignation and 
agony of soul. 

“ Is that a Avoiidy picture ?” asked Ruth, after the Angelus had 
l)een said, and the lady had aiisen from praA’ers. 

“ Oh, no. It is the Garden of Gethsemane. AVe almost heiu* 
tliat prayer, do Ave not V I do. I can even see the blood-sAA’eat upon 
the brow. I look at it AA’ith a desire to l^e submissive, and to say : 
‘ Father, not my AviU but Thine be done.* ” 

“And can’t you ? I think I could — I hope I could,” responded Ruth. 

The lady, making no reply, seemed to have w andered off into 
cb’eamland again. Ruth thought her presence Avas forgotten, until 
.she heard her OAvn name spoken and repeated. 

“ Ruth ! A Ruth’s face, too,” said she, looking fixedly into the 
face as if trying to trace a resemblance to a nother. She continued : 
“ I believe, my cliild, if your name had not been Ruth, I should have 
called you by a SAveet name,” associated A\ith the unselfish devotion 
of a Avoman to a Avoman. Y'ou knoAV of Ruth and Naomi ?” 

“ Yes ; Sister Agatha taught it or read it to me, until I could re- 
peat nearly every Avord.” 

u 'I’ry if you remember it, please.” 


BEKENICE. 


17 


Ruth said : “ ‘ Entreat me not to leave thee nor refrain from 
following after thee. Whither thou goest wiU I go. Thy God shall 
be my God. Thy people my people.’ ” She paused, confusedly, 
saying : “I can thinlv of all but the last.” 

And the best,” replied the lady, repeating the last lines with em- 
phasis, or hidden meaning : “ May God do this and more also, if 
aught but death part thee and me.” 

Ruth is somewhat frightened at her manner. She quails under 
the fixed gaze, the anxious inquiiy'of the eyes, which seems to be 
reatbng her soul. Keeping up the same impressive tone, «he says : 

“ I more desolate than Naomi, have need of faithfulness and 
love.” 

Ruth glances involuntarily around. Her glance says plainly : 

“ Elegance like this and with it misery !” Her thought is inter- 
preted : 

“ I would rather be poor than what I am. Judge for me when you 
witness my suffeiings, or those which are apparent ; the deeper ones 
you will never know. There are weaiy eyes that never weep ; there 
iU'e suffering heaiis that never wail. The splendid misery which 
the eye of the world never looks upon is the worst. But I am talk- 
ing above yom- comprehension. You are young — young for tlie 
trust I am about to repose in you ; but world-wisdom gaiued by 
age makes us cautious, and therefore selfish. Sister Agatha calls 
you an ‘ impulsive child while Sister Barbara says your disposition 
is ‘ angehc.’ ‘ Angelic ’ people, in my experience of them, are stupid, 
quiescent nonentities. They have not read your nature. You are 
S3’m23athetic and intelligent also, far above your age. You have a 
gi’eat gift too, I am told.” 

“I! AYhat is that ?” 

“ Your voice. Sister Agatha entreated of me to make it a subject 
of my thoughts and attention. She considers your talent remark- 
able. Let a few words explain my iutentioiiB. All that can be done 
for your future shall be done. Your voice shall be cultivated ; your 
mind improved. This is my hour of need. I claim your present 
life, or at least its leisure moments. It is my reward for the pro- 
tection which shall save you from the fils of poverty, Avhen I am in 
my grave. Save your tears, child ; no one will miss me. The 
world has not allured me into the desire of stayiug in it longer than 
God -wdlls. I, of all others, should not regret to die, nor do I, ex- 
cept for one. For her I ought to pray for life ; for her I appeal to 
you.” 

“To me?” 

“Yes, to you; but I must explain. Y^our humble, uneventful life 
and mine are inextricablv interwoven.” 

“How?” 


18 


BERENICE. 


“Of the dark shroud that wraps my life and yours in an insepara- 
ble union, I made the warj:) and the woof. You shall hear how I 
made it before I die from my own hj)s. Actions without motives, 
should never be taken in judgment against us. Remember my 
words through aU your life. In all your perplexities weigh well all 
evidences lest you misjudge the innocent.” 

The. lady ceased. Ruth would rather hear more or lifive heard 
less, but the nature of her service is her absorbing speculation and 
inquiry. Mentally she asks: “What shall I be obliged to do for this 
sorrowful lady?” Her query is answered: “I have a little gill neai* 
youi’ age, I want your love and care for her.” 

“Is that all?” asks Ruth in delight. “I will be very happy here 
with your little girl. “I am an asylum child, as the serv^ant called 
me, still we can play together.” 

“Do not say a word of youi* poveily, it is a keen reproach to me.” 

“Why ? you did not make me poor.” 

“ You will like to remain here I hope. You sludl not be called 
an asylum child again.” 

“Yes, ma’am, I think I would hke to stay in this place, it is so pretty. 
I will never be lonesome if there is a little girl here.” 

“Never lonesome. The saddest pail of my story is to bt*. told.” 

“What is it?” 

“ I liave a child as I told you. God has made her beautinil to look 
upon as an angel, but she has no intellect — no mind.’’ (Ruth 
wishes she could ask Sister Barbara why God had made 
the lady so miserable by giving her a child without a mind.) 
“ She can be no companion for you unless your pity, ciiarity, and 
self-abnegation can make your association with her a companionship. 
Do you realize how great the sacrifice I ask of you, how iniportant 
yoiu' work?” 

“ Not quite. It seems a very little ti’ouble to stay here with a little 
girl of my own age, even if she has no mind; I will love her I am 
sure.” 

“ Do not be so confident. To love any one, there must be at least 
an interchange of thought.” 

“If I cannot love her as I have loved Eunice, I will stay and take 
care of her.” 

The lady is not to be led to speak of Eunice, she keeps steadily to 
the point. Earnestly she asks or explains: 

“ Through aU yoiu life, this bond between us is to exist. You 
will never forsake me ?” 

“Never. But then your child will not always be a child, no more 
than I.” 

“ Time will bring no change to her. She ^vill always be a child in 
wisdom.” 


BEEENICE. 


19 


After a pause of a few moments the lady continued: “ I must not 
forget to tell of a hope I have for her. Physicians of eminence have 
given her poor brain the blessing of one germ, dormant, yet alive to 
judicious treatment. So httle, so weak, yet alive, it may be 
nurtaired by kind and gentle companionship, guidance and sympathy. 
She has heretofore had no childish associates; the family consists 
of Berenice and myself.” 

‘‘ Berenice ! Is that your child’s name ?” 

“No. Her name is Winnefred. ‘Winnie’ we call her.” 

Without teUing who Berenice was, she continued: “Hours of 

study in the early morning you shall have, after that you can ramble 
about the woods. See they are so near; or, you may go to the 
river to watch the boats pass, and even without these resoris the 
grounds are extensive; within them you will find many ways of 
(iiveriing yourself. I hope you wiU be able to love my child. 
Winnefi-ed is not repulsive, as I told you ; she is fair as you 
are, only more Idy-hke and frail. You will love her, or at least your 
pity will approach the diviner feeling. Go, now, your eyes are tired 
looking. I have wearied you. Best, by all means, you need not 
see Winnie until moniing.” 

“ When must I get up ?" 

“ Not until the sun awakens you, shining in at your windo^vs. We. 
are late risers here.” 

How happy Ruth is. Sleep until the sun awakens her! No bells, 
no prayers. In leaving the room, as she closes the door the lady re- 
calls her : 

“ Ruth, you are to be my good angel ; I know it. If light should 
come, even the faintest ray, to my poor benighted one through your 
influence, you know not what good may come of it. You shall reap 
a rich reward.” 

“ I have it in a home like this, and your kindness.” 

“ Heaven bless you.” 

“ And you, sweet lady.” 

Ruth, in writing to Eunice, says, concerning her first interview : 

“ Her solemn tone and maimer awed me. She Avas a mystery. 
In her life mme Avas merged. She had said so. How could that 
be? I pitied her, for she Avas evidently miserable. I Avondered 
what troubled her so deeply. She did not need grace, for she knelt 
before Gethsemane every day, as one prajnng for it. Surely her 
prayers AA^ere not in A’^ain. \VIiat did she need ? Tryhig to soRe 
this enigma puzzled my brain. After she had dismissed me I did 
not go immediately to niy room. I ventured to ramble through the 
house. The stare' of the servants annoyed me. One of them, the 


20 


BEEENICE. 


most daring one, I suppose, caring little for consequences, or know- 
ing the impossibility of my denouncing her among so many, made 
hideous faces and giimaces at me ; others laughed at me and mocked 
me. AYith the servants I evidently was an interloper at Mount 
Marah — an asylum girl come to ‘ nuss ’ Miss Winnie. ‘ A little mos- 
quito come to buzz and bite.’ 

“ I was glad to get back into the house. I knew not what part of 
it to steal into away from sight. In enteiing an opened door other 
eyes were gazing upon me ; wondering by what magical spell they 
could follow me persistently around the room, fascinated, I stood 
trying to stare them out of countenance, because I could not take 
my eyes away. Queer people they are* that look do^vTi from the walls 
of the library at Mount Marah. Broad-brimmed hats, stockings and 
knee-buckles ; dames in bodices, ^\dth high combs and powdered hair. 
I wish you could see the Aubrey's in the old paintings. 

“ Do not thinlv me neglectful or unmindful of my promise to you. 
Really, I have never had courage to ask the lady to take you out of 
the asylum. More than this, I fear you would not be as hapj^y here 
as you are at the home we wanted to leave. This is a very lonely 
place. When and how shaU I ever get away from it ? When, oh ! 
when shall I see you, dear Eunice T’ 

The day, which had been out of keei)ing with the (piiet course of 
Ruth’s hfe closed. She reth’ed to her room, but not to sleep. The 
surroundings were so strange, the field of conjecture so wide, the 
house, the inmates, and the work Avhich she was to perform kept her 
in a successive round of thought. A feverish excitement followed. 
She attired herself in the pretty night gown l;\fing folded on her 
bed, then she stood before the mirror to admire Ruth. Ruth in 
nifties! Rufties around her throat, nifties around her wiists. And 
again she walked back and forth to see how Ruth looked when walk- 
ing. She said her prayers mth her eyes ever wandeiing to see Ruth 
kneehng. Her bed was so beautiful, white as snow ! The chef dm aver e, 
the heavy crimson tassel. After she had tired of Ruth in the 
mirror, she examined her room more attentively than hitherto. 

Rohm Hood with his archer’s bow, hanging over her head, pleased 
her more than St. Theresa’s vision or Peter the Hermit. Investigating 
toilet mysteries she paid dearly losing her breath and half strangling 
herself with smeUing salts. After starthng experiences and delights 
the dullness of reaction came. She had tired of novelty, then came 
the train of questions and conjectures of her future. After this she 
remembered that she was alone — to sleep alone for the first time in 
her life. Tlie solitude became fearful, she dared not look around 
the room nor in the mirror at Ruth, in rufties, lest some evil thing 
Avould ap})ear at her side. She w'alked to the open mndow for re- 
lief, but the moaning of the wind in the Avoods, and the rustling of 


BERENICE. 


21 


tile leaves of the p:eat oak near her window, did not give it. In its 
branches was a dark hideous object; it moved, it flapped its wings, 
it gave a shrill cry or screech. An owd only, but a single owl to her 
was more terrible than a legion of owis to a brave one. She mshed 
back into the room. Complication of evils! A bat in skmnning 
around and dashing itself desperately against everjdhing, touched 
her head. At this moment a draught of air extinguished the Hght. 
She was in utter darkness. Opening the door, slie hoped to meet some 
one walking the gaUeiies, or if not, at least to sink down in a quiet 
corner awaiting the morning. A light at the faiiher extremity of one 
of the coiTidors ! She groped about to find a candle, mtending to 
get it relighted, reconciled to loneliness, not to darkness. Tripi)ing 
with her naked feet ^llong the gallery, she reached the room. The 
door w'as opened, but paidiaUj" screened by a curtain of lace ; she 
paused, fearing to distui’b the occupant, a lady standing at a mirror 
with hair floating about her shoulders. 

\Miile Ruth stood undecided, the exquisite wdiite hands, sparkling 
wdth gems, caught it up in a heavy coil, either measuring its 
luxuriance or lifting its weight from her temples. She is too proud 
I dare not ask her a favor,” thought Ruth. She intended to return to 
her dark room and the bat, rather than trouVde any one; but lustrous 
eyes were turned to the door. The lady started shghtly as she saw 
Ruth, but in an instant stepping quickly forth, she threw’- the curtain 
aside and drew her roughly into the room, asking in angry tones : 

Wliy are you prowling about the house at midnight T 

No answ’er came. Ruth w^as terrified at the evh she had evoked. 

“ You came to steal, of course. Your sort never miss an oppox^ 
tunity. Be sure you lay your hands iqion nothing of mine.'’ 

Ruth’s face grew crimson. Tears of angry pride were in her eyes, 
but she struggled ag-ainst them, rephdng in a sharp voice : 

“ I never stole anytliing in my life. I w'as not brought up to steal 
I became afraid in the dark, and came to your room to get a hght.” 

Amazed at the clhld’s defiant manner, more than her w^ords, she 
slapped her cheek with her jew^elled hands, saving, fiercely : 

“You shah leave the house to-morrow for your impertinence. 
You dared to reply to me. A little offcast answ^er a lady in that 
way.” 

“ I’ll willingly go back to the asjduni ; but first it shah be known 
there and in this house too, that you called me thief and struck me.” 

“ You know w ho I am, and yet continue to reply to me ?” 

“ Your name is Berenice. I do not w^ant to know^ anythhig more 
about you.” 

“ Berenice, if you please. Impertinent — ” 

“ AVeU, then, you are Miss Berenice — cmel Miss Berenice.” 

“ (to back to" your bed. I wdU not disturb the house to-night ; 


22 


BERENICE 


hut in the nioruing you return to the asylum. ZiUali, giye her a 
hght, and send her out of my presence.” 

Ruth knew nothing more of the night, than that tlie draught, or 
the hat, put out the light again, and of .heing left to the terrors of 
darkness ; then, of a forgetfulness gradually stealing oyer her, after 
she had thrown herself upon the hed, in excess of pain even more 
than terror ; then of her convalescence after a long illness, foUowiug 
her first night at Mount Marah. 

“ My convalescence is the sweetest memory of my life,” she writes 
to Eunice. “ I had a favorite view from a window in my room ; the 
liver, the Avoods in the distance. In the old oak where the owl had 
so terrified me the robins lived ; they twittered and sang and went 
busily back and forth weaving their curious liests. I often grew sad 
in thinking of how the little birds had some one to care for them. 
Mother-robin, how anxious she was about them ; while no one here 
ever seemed to care for me. I know when any one loves me. I must 
liaA^e been loved once. Eunice, I saw my infancy in my fevered dreams. 
I had one which told me all. I thought as I stood Aveeping at the 
(lolden Gates, they threAv back their bars, and I entered the land of 
Avhich we heard so much at the asylum. I saAv my mother. She 
spoke, but I could not hear ; her voice was lost in Avaves of haiTnony 
that rose and fell like a surging sea. Pressure of magnetic fingers 
eased my throbbing temples. I rested in my mother’s arms ; I felt 
her lij^s touch mine. Then the ineffable joy passed ; a dark and' 
turbid river Avas between us. She stood stretching forth her hands 
to me ; but the inconceivable horror Avas AAdien I saAV her lying on 
the great higliAvay, a multitude of jieople around her. Her golden 
hair was soiled with l)lood ; it Avet my (;heek as I lay beside her. 
She tried to press me to her arms ; she (!Ould not.*’ * * 


CHAPTEll ni. 


“ WHAT IF THIS MAN WERE ROAZ ?” 

“ OR MEPHISTOPHELES ?” 

Fourloii^, weary years passed at Mount Marali,yetthe “ ‘jeerin’- in the 
mind of 'Winnefred had, so far, no fruition. Still Euth wait-ed and lioped, 
saying to rebellious and unbidden thoughts: “Patience must have its 
perfect work.” AYe may be resigned or submissive umler trials that 
wear us away as the slow drip, drip, drijD, wears into the rock. 
The hours of jiassive endurance are sometimes exceedingly troubled 
by self-questioning, we ask: “Have we the right for the well- 
being of others to waste the means of liappiness which God places 
Avithin our reach Resignation and content are not synonyms.” 

Under the wearisome servitude when she looked forth through the 
darkness of the present to iind nothing beyond Mount Marali 
an unworihy and calculating tliought intruded itself upon her 
generous soiil. 'VVinnefred was frail, her life Avordd not be long, at 
its close she would be free. Free from Berenice, from Mrs. (xault, 
from the solemn house in Avhich she had never found either sympathy 
or companionship. 

She writes to Eunice of her own life fit Mount Marah: * * * 

“ For Berenice I have a bad feehng, I fear it is haried. Yet she is 
a wonderful creature. Such splendid eyes and hair, such dresses, 
such jewels! I know I do not envy her. Envy or hate are the only 
feelings which could make me avoid her as I do. We have so much 
room at the Mount, both wit hin doors and without, that I manage 
to see A^ery little of her. I often Avish for you in my favorite Avalk, 
where the paths are overgroAAm; no one ever walks in them but 
Winnefred and me. They lead to a stream so dark, so deep, so clear. 
There we sit and wliile away the tune in the rushes and osiers, shoot- 
ing up amid the shallows, we hear the birds tAvittering; the prettiest, 
liveliest little things they are. Reed warblers they call them. We 
feed them Avith crumbs; they are tame enough to become favorites 
of poor Winnefred. She is alAvays dehghted when we are going to 
the birds. 

This is a very dull hfe for me, I cannot feel the interest in it which 
I ought to feel in the fulfillment of my promise to IMrs. Gault — the 


24 


BERENICE. 


Lady of Mount Marah” she is called. I really sin, so far, as to wash 
at times that she had chosen a better person than I for the dull, 
dragging, monotonous work. I have tried to divide my precise hue 
of duty, to have pleasant digressions, but in vain. In the house I 
must be chained to the wearisome round. If I did not love nature, 
if its every voice did not cheer me, what a life mine would be. 

* :}c * ;f: 

A joyful thought comes to me. It brmgs me the prospect of 
happiness, or rather trancjuility. Berenice will be gone ere long. 
She has a lover ! Do you wonder that I am anxious to see the l)eing 
who could love her ? He is coming to-mon’ow or next day. Y^ou 
suppose by this time that I shall teU you something more of Mount 
Marah, at least of its mistress. I cannot. She is a perfect recluse. 
Except when she comes to my room to inquire about Wiimefred’s 
(*ougii, I see nothing of her. I have never mentioned my desire to 
have you here udth me. I never will. You would be obhged to 
live as I do, out of doors, or to endure the presence of the worst, 
and yet the most beautiful, of Avomankind. Even Mrs. Gault coidd 
not protect you fi*om Berenice. 

“ I had been politely requested to keep out of sight of A'isitors, 
and not to be heard screechmg about the house. (How differently 
my singing Avas estimated by Sister Agatha. ) In the Avoods, far 
from the house, I A^enture to sing noAV. Yet AAdthout I will sing ; I 
cannot help it. One evening of last month I met her loA'er for the 
first time by the river, after sunset. I Avas Avith Winnefred. A boat 
suddenly appeared from around a bend of the river, quite near us. 
I had not time to get out of the Avay before they saAv me, so I Avas 
obliged to meet them. This Avas my first fam A'ieAV of her lover, al- 
though he had been more than a Aveek at Mount Marah. 

“ The only pleasant AA^ords I liaA^e had spoken to me since the first 
day I came here, Avere spoken by him. I sat AA'ith AVinnie on the 
grass, blushing and confused, AAdshing, as I saAV him approaching, 
that he would pass me Avithout obseiwation. Instead, he very cour- 
teously bade me ‘ Good eA^ening.’ Then, in a half-sup]3ressed tone, 
he asked Berenice Avho I Avas. Her ansAver— hoAV cruelly distinct ! — 
‘All asylum girl aaEo takes charge of AYinnefred.’ ” 

“ ‘ She has a beautiful face,’ ” said he. “ ‘ AVhat a castaAvay life 
she lives. I Avonder Iioav she endures it.’ 

Thinlv of her reply : 

“ ‘ A malicious, hateful imp. Any life is good enough for her, in 
my opinion.’ ” 

“ He did not believe her assertion ; I Avas sure of it by the scorn- 
ful look he gaA'e her, as he turned to smile, half-pityingly, upon me. 
The AYorst part of my humiliation is that I cried— -I cried for her. 


BERENICE. 25 

He saw niy tears and became more indigiiant. He could scarcely 
repress his aiig-er. 

“ ‘ Berenice,’ said he, in a harsh tone, ‘ you forget this poor girl 
has a sensitive organization — a foolish thing called a heart. You 
should not stab it with such cruel words.’ ” 

“ ‘ A malicious, hateful imp.’ ” 

“ A stormy, angry grief took possession of me, not a Christian's 
sorrow, but a demon’s. I murmured even at my God. Neglected 
by those I benefited, depiived of the sweet xirivileges of home life, 
betrayed by Mrs. Gault. M as I not betrayed V M hat promises she 
made ! AH false ! 

“Five years ago I was to be taught every thing imaginable, especially 
to sing. I have been my own teacher so far, and that in stolen mo- 
ments, far in the night, when I can be of no service to her child. Then 
I try to fathom mysteiies by books which I chance to picku]) around 
the house without observation; for I actually fear to be found with 
a book in my hand. Servants are not ex 2 :)ected to be students. 
What am I l)ut a servant? Worse than one! I work without re- 
ward; I work with a rebellious feeling, thinking that I am cast even 
l>elow my sphere. What is my sphere ? AYho am I? Why does she 
not explain how my fate is involved with the Aubreys, the proudestr 
family in the State. Instead of this, she holds me aloof, she keeps out 
of my way. She does not like to look at me. Do we dislike i^eople whom 
we have injured? In reflecting upon her words and manners during 
my first inteiwiew mth this Lady of Mount Marah, I think of an inad- 
vertent remark which dropped from her lips, ‘ your 2 )overty is a reproach 
to me.’ Can you conjecture why it should be? Some day I shall grow 
daiing, desperate and defiant. I will confront this woman who is 
stealing away from me the l^est years of my hfe, giving me in return, 
indiflereiice, scorn, contempt! Oh Eunice! if ’twere not time lost, 
I could make you hate them— her for her passive endurance and 
abstraction from her home diities ; Berenice for her active and un- 
tiring persecutions.” 

jj; 

“ I met him again upon an evening in the sultry days of August. 
The sun had set in red and gold. It reminded me of the clover field 
when we used to sit and watch the gorgeous dyes and wish we had 
ribbons and dresses like them. I was humdng home, regretting I 
had staid out so long, when some one called me. I knew the voice, 
and, Eunice, I can’t deny that I was very glad to hear it. 

“You fly from me, little lady,” said he, “I have been near you for 
an hour enraptured with your voice. I have heard you often of late. 
Who taught you to sing so accurately?” 

I answered as calmly as I could in my trepidation ; “No one taught 
me. AVhat little I sing, I gather up, as crumbs that fall in my way. I 


BEUENICE. 


- 2 () 


listen nt night to the nnisic in the parlor; in the day I am seldom 
at home. ” 

“Where are youV” 

“ In tlie woods, with Winnetred V" 

“Do the ladies know what a voice von have';:'” 

“Oh ves, inv screeching nsed to annov Miss Berenice. Of course 
I never sing* in the house now.” 

“AVell, well; it’s quite laughable. Annoy her! Why, your voice is 
the Orphean lyre compared to hers; or rather, to be comprehensive, 
the nightengale and the owl — I’ve a great mind to tell hei‘ so. She 
might be just at least.’’ 

“I hope sir, you will not wound her feelings. I would not wisli 
you to, though she is my enemy.” 

“ I believe she does dislike von. Have vou made her voui’ enemv, 

• • • « 

or is it a natural {intipathy 

“ What could one in my capacity do to influence a lady with whom 
she has no intercourse ? I have no reason to sjieak to her ; there- 
fore I do not. Yet I believe she hates me. I know not why. What 
she said to you about me was a proof of her aversion to me.” 

“ You are an orphan, I believe V” 

As his whole manner had inspired me with unusual contidence, 
I was quite at ease in his presence, and answered accordingly : 

“ Mr. Eric, you know I am an orphan, and that I came here from 
the asvluin to nurse Winnie, some A'ears ago. Of course vou do. 
for Berenice told a"ou so.” 

ft 

“ Really, you must forgive me. I was trying to ascertain what 
A'ou knew of A’ourself.” 

< ft • 

“ Of myself ? Why nothing, and never will. I wish I did, and I 
wish still more earnestly that I was back where I came from.” 

“ You do not lilve jMount Marah ?” 

“ How can I ? I can safelv saA' that I am entireh' alone. I know 

« ft • 

no one here but a poor, senseless being, AA'ith AAdiom I have no com- 
])anionship.” 

“ But she is inq)roving. Berenice told me so.” 

“ Oh, my ! Hoav little. I am quite discouraged. i\£rs. (fault ex- 
pected so much of me. 1 have tried so hard. AVinnefred Avill never 
be more than she is.’’ 

“ She entertains likes and dislikes for people and places, doesn't 
she ? That gives a hope of improA'cment.’’ 

“ She likes no one but me, and I loA'e her. As to lier 2)references 
for places, on rainy days she is miserable, tor then Ave have to re- 
main AA'ithin doors.’’ 

“ How in the range of human possibilities or probabilities did a'ou 
get to love her ?” 

“ Because she needed mv love, and because she is the «)nlv one 




27 

who ever loved me, that, is, to the degree that she does. Thinking 
of you I modified tlie first asserthni.” 

He continued : “ How long do you expect to live in this way ? You 
certainly liave made some limit to such service 

“■ I have promised to remain with AVinnefred while both of us live, 
('ould I leave her were I ever so unhappy ? 

“ And are you so ? Contide in me entirely. 1 will he your firm 
friend. I may he ahle to better your condition.’^ 

“ As I told you, Yliss Berenice hates me. If she did not show it 
so plainly in every look and word, perhaps I would he contented. ■’ 

“ AVhv does she hate one so lovable 

“ She told you 1 was not lovable. You must believe her.” 

I do not know why I should. I am not swayed by her opinions. 
1 don’t belie \'e a word against you, and I do believe that you are 
good. I think that your voice may be a fortune to you yet. ’’ 

Just then we were interrupted by a third party, a friend of jMi-. 
Ethel’s? whom we, or rather he, had quite forgotten. In trying to 
talk to AA^iunetred he had ascertained her mental condition. 

“How sad, ” he remarked to Mr. Eric ; “ so fair, too, with her 
golden locks and sea-shell complexion. Aphrodite risen from the 
sea, or she ndght l)e one of the Neriedes. ” 

“One of the sixty Diana demanded of her indulgent sire, to fol- 
low her in the chase, to hold her bow, or lace her sandals, ” 

“ She is too fi*ail to follow the unnatural hoyden. Unlike Aphro- 
dite, love may ne’er attend her, nor breeze bear her from Cythera to 
C;;\^3rus.” 

“Pshaw !” “said Mr. Eric impatiently; “ we are talking of Greek 
divinities to those little interested in them. AA^e will walk on toward 
home Avith you, Buth,'’ 

“I Avould rather have gone alone. I fejired Berenice and her revenge- 
fvd spirit. He had called me child, I did not like the word. AA^hat, except 
a few hours with the children at the asylum, Avhen Ave played in the 
cloA^er held, had I known of childhood? Aly AA ork Avas not child’s 
Avork, ah no ! But then I knoAv I should not cavil at a Avord, or at 
his Auews; for from the evening he si)oke of a future beyond this 
dreadful pla(*e I have revelled i'. the thought of freedom. Hoav 
AA ude a Avorld this is. AA"e need not thAvart each other s purposes ; 
Berenice and I. AA'e never aaTII, Eunice, never. He bade iiu' 
think of him as a friend; to call upon him as a friend. AATiy, as a 
child I could go in his Avays, to seek him in my need, even if he did 
not come in mine. Eunice, tell me, why should I have Aveighed the 
Avord as it fell from his lips, sounded it and have cavilled at the ac- 
ceptance of it? AATiy did it seem to form a barrier betAveen him and 
me for all time ? ' In the journey of life, Ave never overtake those 

Avho lead. However much they may long to grasp our hands in 


•28 


liEKENlOE. 


comjjanionsliip, there can be no retrogression; no delay. No matter 
how longingly dear eyes ^\ith their lost love glances look liack, they 
meet no answer from om-s, until we cross tlie mystic tide. 

.-jc ^ * :jc ^ 

“Child ! Why had I not realized the .sweet protectiveness of the word. 
Berenice was the full deep rose, royal indeed, and I, the poor, pale 
little blossom ; trodden down, unnoticed in the wilds of Mount 
IMarah. 

^ >;< ;i< :[« 

“Oh Eunice ! My loved and lost friend; how I long for the sympa- 
thy of your ardent soul. I am so wretched ! I am more lonely than 
ever. In my despair I yearn for a sight of my fiiend, yet, by strange 
inconsistency I avoid aU jdaces where I know' he is most fipt to 
be. 

::jc :jc Jjj ^ ^ ;); 

“Now I have W'litten you all. You know- my heart’s .secret. ]Mv 
troubled life; the hopes that arose and then were dashed to eaiih. 
I must get my letter out of this house without surveillance* He 
bade me in eveiy need to call upon him. Can I do so, except by 
walking in his ways? T will, I can; for he tliinks me but a child.’’ 


CHAPTEll IV. 


KAVKS-DKOPPING. EXTIIVCTS FR0:M HUTH’h JOURNAL. 

Tlie letter to Eunice was written in tlie solitary hours of night. 
My secret thoughts were in its keeping. My anxiety to meet ilr. 
Ethel alone, was to entrust him with this precious missive. 

I was returning home from an evening walk, (one of the many 1 
had taken in vain,) when I heard a footstep approaching, then a voice 
with a pleasant, “ Good evening, Ruth, where have you kei^t yourself? 
1 have traversed the gTounds of Mount Marah, day after day; waited 
b}’ the riverside listening for the voice of my wild- wood minstrel; 
one who annoys a certain lady 'svith her warblings.” 

He had startled me, but I regained sufficient composure to answer: 
'"‘I do not, go out now as I once did.’’ 

“ Mliy not?” 

“ I don’t know, sir.” 

“ A Avoman’s ansAver truly. They ahvays evade Avhat the A" do not 
wish to explain. You are A eiy pale! did I frighten you? Well if J 
did you deserve it for disappointing me so often. Sit doAvn here be- 
side me, I Avant to talk to you.” 

“I cannot, indeed; I forgot this basket A\'ith our floAvers, and left 
Winnie Avith her mother, Avhile I hurried aAvay to get it.” (This 
Avas true.) 

“ The proper ])erson for AVinnie to be with, ii^her mother. So as- 
.sured must you be of her safety, tliat I insist upon your singing me 
one song before you return to her. Ever such a httle simple one 
Avill satisfy me for the present.” 

“It is late. They Avill Avonder at my staAdng’out so long. ” \ 

“ I Avill return AAuth you. AVhat objection can you noAV urge? 
None, I am sure. I Avant you to sing, I Avould like to judge farther 
of your voice. I have been making jjlans for you, to be carried out 
in the future; Avhen you get out of the meshes.’’ 

“Meshes! What do you mean by that?” 

“Is it not too late to exjdain?” Said he significantly Avith a smile. 
He continued: “You are in the toils. The lion of the fable was 
not more so. I might if you agreed, be the mouse to gnaAv the 
cords and fi-ee you. Rut no more of Tiiy projects now. I Avill 


BEEENICE. 


ao 

silence them at lionie as to your late retui’ii. Sing, Ruth ; oblige 
me please.’’ 

“Berenice will say cruel words. You cannot silence her.” 

“What! about your being abroad with me ? Impossible!” 

“She did before, when 1 was rather late; the eycuiing when you 
walked to the gate with me.” 

“ Then you fear to ottend Berenice? Are you subseryient to 
her.” 

“Fear !” the word roused a tire that I knew not to exist in my 
spirit. I answered impulsiyely: “I fear no one. 1 will sing for you, 
but you had better let it be a hymn. I am growing so wicked ; I am 
beginning to hate eyery one.” 

“You only think so. I’m sure you don't hate me?” 

“ No, not at }»U.” 

“Sing what you please Ruth.” 

“ Ora, Pro, Xohifi? We used to sing it at the asylum eyery eyening 
at this hour.” He readily assented. Tlie j^ower of my yoice sur- 
prised me as it rang out clear, sweet, and silyery on the eyening air. 
I was proud of my (xod-giyen gift, when lie said, with truth, or its 
})crfect send dance : 

“I (*,ould lie here, the wind from the waves playing over me, and 
di€i. Your voice; a link of harmony Tvixt earth and heaven.” 

I answered: “The hymn is a prayer, that is why it draws one 
near to God. ” 

“Are not all hymns, prayei-s Ruth?’’ 

“Yes, I believe so; but this is sweet and sad too. It i-eniinds me 
of my old home.’’ 

“ You feel what you sing. I know by the effect your voice has 
upon me.” 

“I must not stay longer, Winnie will be fretting for me.’’ 

“ That woman baW ! are you always to play the part of mother, 
find nurse and slave r Intolerable wdtli such talent as yours ! Y^ou 
have aspirations for a life above this seiwile one?” 

“ As 2 :)irations ! Ah yes, and they make me miserable. I ought to be 
contented, for I accepted my lot Avillingly.” 

“Were there not mutual obligations when you assumed yours?” 

“Yes, my education was to have been completed, which, indeed, 
was only begun, and my voice was spoken of at the asylum, as bemg 
worthy of Mrs. Gault’s attention^ But, I exact nothing. I am satis- 
fied to be what lam — ‘Winnie’s nurse.’” The sadness of my voice 
made my y:ords, in meaning, futile. How can you consider yourself 
bound to such servitude when their promises are unfulfilled to you? 
Years of your life have ah-eady been lost. It istime to remonstrate.’’ 

“I study at night and read a great deal, and, reaUy, I could not 
leave them if I were to try. I love Winnie. For the others, I care 


i^EEENICE. 


81 


notbiiifi’; noi* do tliev for me. I pity Mrs. (Taiilt sometimes, and at 
others I despise her.” 

“ Ruth, you shall not entirely saeiitice yourself. If this child were 
to die, what would you be ! Would they recognize your claims 
u])on them? Hare you neyer thought of this?” 

“Yes, often, but she may outliye me. AWiy take thought of 
morrow. Consider the liUies of the field, they neither toil nor spin ; 
nor do they seek to know whence conies the dew and tlie sun. The 
promise giyen in this: is it not sufficiently clear for us? I will trust 
as I haye been taught. We are at the gate, and; oh, my! it is dark I 
I am afraid to meet Berenice after all my boasting.” 

“lam going into the house with you.” 

“ Do not, I pray?’’ 

“ I must; I Hye here.'’ 

“Please then, say nothing of me; it will bring trouble. It will 
only worry Mrs. (Tault.” 

“A great deal must be said, but so carefuUy that it shall benefit, 
and not annoy you. I will awaken the dreamer, — or fanatic — so- 
dead to the responsibilities of woman’s life; so false to you.” 

There was no time to say more. I bade him “good eyening” ah 
the gate, hurrying through the garden into the house in search of 
Winnie. The letter to Eunice ! I had not thought once during our 
interyiew of it. Ah, me ! I had every word he had uttered in my 
memory, like some old sweet rytlini. And yet, often I wished he had 
not spoken to me at aU, eyincing' an interest in my life. A\Tien we 
find ourselves watching and hstening for one, and only one; we may 
tremble when that one conies never more, I knew, too late, his pow- 
er over me ; I knew it when he left Mount Marah, to revisit it oc- 
casionally. In the wet days of the fall, Avhen walks in the Avoods 
Avere impracticable, I passed hours, nay, entire days in the library 
which presented a varied assemblage of the giants of master-mind|S. 
Erom the abstruse doctrines of old philosophers I turned aAvay Avitli 
a regret that I could not comprehend them, I kneAV that I AAas begin- 
ning at the end. On upper shelves, fortunately, I found lighter 
literature. Our retreat in the lilirary Avas as isolated as that of the 
woods. I pored OA'er books, AAdiile Winnie amused herself AAith card 
houses and battles of chess (not by any means according to Hoyle). 
Though reading entertained me, it had, also, an opposite effect — I 
felt my deficiencies. In Scott’s gleanings of histoiical truths, 
Ansible through, the Avebwork (,)f fancy, benefitted Avdiile they de- 
lighed me. The fate of Amy Robsart Avas my dream of my 
mother. I liste'ned Avith poor Amy for the coming of the irresolute 
Leicester. I triedhard to hate him, for her sake, yeven as I 
hated, Avithout trAdng, the haughty and imperious Elizabeth. 
With the sad eyes of the Seer’s daughter, I gazed upon (Todolphin 


BEKENIOE. 


:^2 

unci the stars, and read to the end (to close the book in tears). Lu- 
cille ! unselfish, sacrificing, even with her foibles, putting to shame the 
<*alculating, world-attainted love of her high-born lival, Constance Ver- 
non ! The fiuttering of a leaf, the slightest sound made me tremble, as 
I read the weird stories of Anna Eaclchfte. I took my prosj^ective of 
poor humanity fi'om a high standpoint — the heroes and heroines of 
the Edge worth books, with their impossible perfections. Volumes of 
“Letters” I i^ored over, veiled in sophistry so coinpletely that I 
thought them sinning victims and slaves to circumstances. All is clear 
enough now, since I have become a woman of the world. In 
“ Falkland ” tears had blurred its pages. It was also interhned 
and noted at the most eloc^uent passages of love, seK-reprovings and 
keenest anguish. Who at Mount Marah, I asked myself, had loved, 
and suffered, and found the retrospect of a misguided and wasted 
life in “ Falkland ?” But one day, of the many, Avheii there was no 
Avorld to me but that which the mind-magicians had made around 
me, my refuge was disturbed. Had it not been for the author, I 
might have heard the tread, cat-like as it was. Berenice was stand- 
ing beside me, Avhen I believect her far away. I closed the book. 
Perhaps it was out of courtesy. I think it must have l)een. 

“ You are becoming literary in your tastes,” she remarked. Her 
manner, being sarcastic, made her words appear so. “ Silence did 
not save me,” she continued, taking u]> the book that I had lain 
<loAvn. 

“ This is mine. In future avoid touching anything that belongs 
to me. Do you hear V” I ansAvered, A^ery calmly : 

“ I Avish I had knoAvn it Avas yours. Instinct ought to liaA^e told 
me so.” 

“ As instinct ought to tell you that I hate you.” 

“ I kneAV it by (lemonstration long ago. Why you hate me is a 
mystery. Would you object to solving it for me V” 

“ Not at all. You are here. A^ou came to Avork me eA’d. Y^oiu- 
purpose is no secret, (to hence, and my hatred sliall change, at 
least, to respect. You look defiant. If you heed not my Avarning 
it AviU be not only <a curse, but an undying soitoav to you. Sj)eixk 
tndy. You think you are to be adopted by my foolish stepmother.” 

“ In making terms Avith ISIrs. Gaidt, I thought too little of myself 
and too much of others. No matter uoav. I sealed my oavu doom. 
I shall continue to live here Avhile I am needed. The task of my 
life I perform faithfully, as I promised Avhen I undertook it.” 

“ Your task is nearly ended. Will you be left then as a legacy t(j 
me ? A cross for AA'hich, in religious parlance, no cr’own would ever 
repay me.” 

“I will, when the issue comes, be far from y(.)u and Mount ^Vlarah.” 

“ We undeirtand each either. ” 


BERENICE. 


Left to myself I g’ot up an array of charges against the world’s in- 
justice and deceptions. I remembered that once, when I wanted to 
see the beautiful opposite side of the liver, which appeared to me 
infinitely more attractive than ours, Mrs. Gault, with an am of su])e- 
lior knowledge, said to me : 

“ My child, make the best of what is near. That distant bliss is a 
mirage — we never reach it. The velvet heath, so green, so soft ; go 
to it, and it is rugged enough. So it is, we go on, and ever and 
ever on. At last we stop to gaze wistfully back at the Past : the 
Present, at every step, disappoints us. 

With the journey just begun was I not looking back ! Childhood 
and the asylum Avere iieaceful ; no one hated or persecuted me then. 
After the day’s monotonous round I was alone; always alone. No 
communion of thought in this sad place. Lured by the beauties of 
the gai’den, with the moon’s softened shadings upon trees, fiowers 
and fountains, I was accustomed to walk out, under the oaks and 
magnolias. Left to the mercy of merciless thought, my whole exist- 
ence w-as a continual train of reflections. Thought is never entirely 
suspended, yet the difierence in its Avorkings, as to rapidity and 
intensity, is wide and varied. Those aaTio have no medium of com- 
munication evolve thought rapidly. So it was with me. One sup- 
position upon another, conjecture upon conjecture, plan upon plan 
I built up. They toppled, and at last fell, at the touch of Reason — 
the needful equilibiium. Questions I put to space ; problems 
I asked, Avhich no ke}' Avill ever be brought to solve. Lost 
in a cloud-mist, AAdth not even a chff to rest my strained jAowers. 
Naturally, most of my abstractions Avere of the lonely Avoman, 
whose days Avere a mysterious, monotonous round, who, in the 
meridian of life had lost all interest in it, withdraAving from its strife 
and its jdeasures, allowing none to witness the combat, the defeat 
and the despair Avhich some mysterious grief had brought. Some 
maddening memory kept her in a mental somnambulism Avhich one 
Avould no more think of trying to l)reak than they Avould W rouse a 
corpse from its cold rigidity and solemn stillness to ansAver a ques- 
tion in ethics. 

Eric Ethel Avas a visitor at the Mount, as heretofore. Berenice 
and he walked and rode and sang together. I looked at them Avith 
a sense of being the only one in the w^orld entirely unloved and for- 
saken. He had not, as he had promised, endeavored to change the 
routine of my existence. He had never thought of me. He meant 
nothing by a promise given Avithout my asking it. He had de- 
ceiA'Cd me. 

After Winnie slept one moonlight niglit, I rambled about uneasily. 
At length, upon the gtillery, in the shade of the vines, I seated my- 


BERENICE. 


U 

self. Ill I'epR to remarks which I had not heard, Eric said to 
Berenice : 

“ Chance and Destiny are one. The power united becomes Fate.” 

Berenice replied : “ Was it not mysterious, too, the way tliis power 
eombined and harmonized, casting our paths togetlier. Yom* nature 
is good and noble. What would mine have been without your love V 
The only prayers I ever utter are of thankfulness to (xod that gave 
me 3'our love. Am I not a Chiistian ?” 

A shudder came over me. Stiiving to hold my heart-throlis that 
I might not lose a whisper, I heard Berenice, as she kept up the 
conversation. I waited most for his replies ; but he, it appeared, 
was not inclined to answ'er, yet mthal, persistently, she went on. 

“ Destiny ! How fearful it becomes when we ponder upon it. 
Destin}^ to be poor ; destiny, to be lich, or wicked, or miserable. I 
rather lilve the throwing off of the incubus of sin. 'Tis better to 
draw the chariot than to drive it ; there’s less responsibility. Fjite, 
our charioteer, gives us the whip, while Ave folloAv meekly, ears 
down, plodding along at our master’s bidding. If ’tis written that 
the plague spot shall always infect me, Avhat can I do to save mystif 
from the poison? For this evil, and all that grows out of it, fate is 
responsible. Ruth AVard is kept here by Mrs. (lault — the A^'ork of 
destiny. AA^ill you, then, or Avould any one, blame me for hating 
that girl ?” ^ 

He spoke now very distinctly : 

“ AVe ought to have control of our evil passions. AA"e should not 
attempt to cast the resi^onsibility of them upon an abstract intlii- 
eiice, of which Ave cannot prove the existence.” 

“ You are not a true predestinarian, since you modify the i^lc^•i- 
table. Better, and more consistenth^ make all things j^ossible to 
us — nothing forecast. If there is preordination, it must be Avith all 
tilings, eAul or good, great or small. Because, by the small the great 
comes. A moment’s time lost, a Avalk for jileasiire, the dropping of 
a glove, the most trmiff things, fashion our AAdiole lives. Do yon 
think it was preordained that man should be tempted in the Clarden 
of Eden, and that he should fall into the snare like a trapped bird ?” 

“ I do think it Avas.” 

“ If so, the fate of countless millions did not hang upon the issue 
of a Avoman’s craving for an apple. AA^e are punished for what she 
was expected to do — AA'hat she could not avoid doing.” 

“ Then Ave Avould be punished for yielding to evil promptings, as 
Eve was.” 

“ Come tlicA' as Ruth AA^ard, or the serpent ?” 

“ This conversation leads a theological controversy, for Avhich 
neither you nor I are able. AA^e had better fall liai'k upon the ori- 
ginal standpoint.” 


BERENICE. 


155 


“ Eaitli ? That is an acknowledgment of being lost in a labyrinth 
that no light can penetrate. The boundary between Avhat is for us 
to do, and what we can avoid doing, is indelinite. Destiny or free 
agency is still a question. I know much of my nature and what is 
l)ossible to it. If I were hideous or deformed, I should hate my 
^Nlaker for fashioning me so. Is that my fault ? Am I accountable 
for the evil that comes of venom engendered by the chaiiness of 
favors which Destiny has in her power to give and yet Avithholds V 
Such sins are involuntary ones, (kan Ave l)ut yield to them V” 

Eric ansAvered : 

“ Destiny, or chance, or Avhat you will, has given you a fair Avay. 
You can not murmur. Through pleasant jAatlis you Avalk through 
life. Hoav meagre their gifts to others, avIio are good, jjatient and 
deseiwe much — Ruth and AVinnefred : one Avithout mind ; the other, 
though fair and gifted, is still a lonely, unloA^ed being.” 

“ And unloveable, AAliicii is more hopeless. AVhy did you not con- 
sider that in the catalogue of her misfortunes V” 

“ Simply because I do not consider her unlovable. You are 
])rejudiced against a friendless girl, Avhose life has been a sacrilice so 
far — a shameful one to this Aubrey family. By the fearful tragedy 
of that past, you, Avith them, should be bound to her cause. Slie is 
a noble girl, the most self-sa(*riticing being I ever met. Her (iiarac- 
ter is a rare one in this selfish Avoiid. I have felt from the first mo- 
ment I saAV her at the liver side, a tender and fraternal iuRirestin hei ." 

“ Indeed ! I Avas not conscious of that.” 

Her voice was so low and husky, it Avas cpiite unnatural. She 
turned abruptly aAvay fi’om the Avalk and ascended the steals, Eric 
foUoAving. ( )n the gallery, in the shade of the vines, I heard .all. 
They stood together, Avith the moonlight falling full upon them. He 
Avas unlike those Ave meet in our daily walks. One Avould naturally 
turn as he i)assed, to look Avell at him. A line, Saxon physique, light 
hair, long, hoAving beard, darkly, deeply -blue eyes, firm lijis, parting 
often in his merry Laugh to sIioav his perfed. teeth ; a Hercules, yet 
none the less an A})ollo. Berenice, grand, stately, magnificent, glit- 
tering in jewels l)y the moonlight. A Avhite, flee(W- dress, Avith 
ciimson relieAings ; .a single floAver of A ivid crimson in her })ur2)le- 
black hair. She stopped on the marble stt'ps AA-lien she reached the 
top, mused a moment, then (RaAving herself up to her full height, 
she said in a distinct tone of voice : 

“ If Ave tread iq)on a Avorm it turns to defend itself. I Avould be 
less than one not to resent your insult; premeditated, I fully believe. 
You intended this night to quaiTel Avith me. AYiiat right have you 
to rejjrove me for my remarks about that girl V” 

How could he li.'n’e ansAvered the glorious Avonian, standing in 
her proud beauty, as he did, for me, an asylum child V 


36 


BERENICE. 


“ No right,” assuredly Berenice, but the one I would assume at all 
times to defend the weak and oppressed. No man would do less 
than this. Not even if he were coinj^elled by so doing to differ Avith 
a lady.” 

“A valiant knight — -the very flower of chivalry, to enter the lists 
against a lady by defending a low-born girl. Would it not be well 
to wait until sucli seiwice Avas needed? My Avords could not have 
harmed her, they aa ere spoken to you only; yours AA'ere spoken to me, 
of myself.” 

“ If your Avords to me Avere the only ones, I might have restrained 
my lips to silence. But a conversation in the library some Aveeks 
ago with Ruth, Avhich I Avould rather knoAV not of, for your sake and 
my happiness, impelled me to sj^eak.” 

“For your happiness! Your AVords haA'e a deep significance. I 
comprehend you ; you are her confidant, you give credence to her 
slanders against me. This is kind, loving, generous of a'Ou, Eric* 
Ethel.’’ 

“BelieA'e me;not from her did I hear Avhat passed at the inter- 
view in the library, yet I could repeat to you every word. Hhe Avas 
not to touch aught of yours. Y"ou Avould force her to go out into 
this unkindly AA’orld, anvAAfiiere, to clear the path for you. No, 
Berenice, I i^rotest solemnly she did not tell me one Avord of it. 
Nevertheless 1 know it.’’ 

“You Avere eaves-dropping, I suppose?’’ “ Have a care Avhat you 
say; something might escape A^our lips that I never could forgive.” 

“ Y’^ou thi’eaten me! You err in depending so much on my loA'e 
for you.” She dreAV the floAver, AAdiich he had just gathered, from her 
hair, pulled its petals apart, then threAV them disdainfully on the 
steps. “ I cast your love from me as this floAver ; I gwe it to Ruth or 
any one aaEo A'alues it. What chaff it is ! Any Avind is likely to blow 
it off* as these petals.” 

“Do not hastily overrate my sin. It has been only a leaning to 
mercy’s side, toAvard an orphan who from the moment of her or- 
plninage has had extraordinary claims upon the kindness of us all. 
The fearful tragedy of the past does not move your heart to com- 
passion? Instead of a life of servitude, she should be placed upon 
a socijil footing Avith the family. The circumstances of her orphan- 
age demand it.” 

“PshaAv! A mere chance. I can not concede that she has any 
rights of the kind. God knoAvs aa Iio she is : she can never have a 
place Avith me.” 

“Thenobihty of Nature, Avhich no circumstances of Inrth can give 
or take — you have surely never thought of it in Ruth.’’ “Y"our sar- 
casm to-night is keen; to avoid it, I bid you good-night.” 

Eric Avas alone. He paced back and forth as nearly all men do in 


BERENICE. 


;i 7 

trouble. For a while Ills limits were the part of the ‘>allery re- 
moved pretty far from where I sat. How I felt, no words liave 
power to descriibe ; I had been indireetly the (aiuse of ther quarrel I 
She loved him ! What torture would her sh^htest love and vengeance 
inflict on me ! And would not he upon reflection, since he had lost 
her; hate me? AMiat did he mean by the “Tragedy of the Fast” 
and my “Claims.” What were they ? With thoughts and supposi- 
tions miming through my mind, Eric approached and observed me. 

“Mr. Enc,” said I rising, and, in the emergency, finding 
strength and words to explain my situation, “Mr. Eiic, I have heard 
Jill ; I could not help it. Would to Heaven I had not come here this 
night, to know that I have brought such gi*eat trouble iqion you. 
I jet me at once be the messenger of peai^e to the one whom I know 
you love so well. What am I! How insignificant to that love! Oh, 
if I could only die — ” 

He interrupted me : “ Ruth, don’t worry about me. I had rather, 
for your own sake, you had known less of this matter. But I do 
not regret anything I have said in your favor. If I had known 
’twould cost me my eternal misery, my soul’s (amdemiuition, I would 
have said it.” 

“ I am not worth jiU this trouble. Why did you not let her tjilk ? 
As she said, what harm could it have done me ? I will bear to her 
the message of your repentance. Anything but to have you suffer 
through me.” 

“Thank you for your kind offer, of which I cannot avail myself. 1 
will send no message ; I am free. Could I love one tluit I would 
fear? Love is founded on a better basis.’’ 

“ Do 3^011 fear Berenice?” 

“ Yes, I fear for 3'ou. She will not be likely to forgive you for 1113' 
interference in your behalf. Her nature has shocked me ; there 
isn’t a spark of generosit3' in it. Go, Ruth, out of this chill3" air. 
Compose 3a)urself. Give me 3"Our dear little hand. How cold it is ; 
it trembles, too. This night has been too exciting for 3'ou.” 

“Bless von for 3' our good thoughts of me, and for 3*our brjive lieart 
fliat lu’ged 3'ou to give them utterance, at so fearful a cost.” 

“Not so great a one Jis 3^)11 think, Ruth. Good night. Pleasant 
drejims ! Stay ; let me tell 3’ on sometliing that nia3' make 3'our views 
of this palling between myself and Berenice clearer and less painful.” 

“ If you can I will I)e glad.” 

“She will, in two months, or even earlier, have Jinother lover,’' 

“Oh, I sincerel3' hope so.” 

“So do I. Now, once more, good night.” 

“Parting, they seemed to tread upon the air, 

Twin roses by the zephyrs blown apart 
Only to meet again, more close to share 
The inward fragrance of each other’s heart." 


(’HAP’J’KK V. 


St. ’s AsYLfTM, SeptenilxT 12, IS — . 

Deak Kri’H! My Own A'NFokgotten Ruth ! —I kissed your letter 
until it is qiiite liinisy (the paper, I ineaii). Perhaps my tears had 
something to do \Yith getting it into this state. I eried for joy, and 
cried for sorrow. Tlie sorrow was for your unhappiness. Ah ! if 
you knew how I had ein ied you yoiu' luxurious life ! Fam^ying that 
in its intense delights you had forgotten me, I felt so aggrieved, so 
disappointed in yoiu’ love. For weeks after you went aA\ay, I was 
quite crazed ; I moped Avorse than ever, and even in the clover was 
never playful. Time, at last, did its work, and Ruth became to me a 
living memory. But now my heart is as warm to you as ever ; you 
are my own dear sister again. I am the same Eunice, rebellious, 
wayward, hating this place most fervently, from the patter, patter, of 
the feet in the morning, as we go hither {ind thitlier to the rows 
and 1‘ows and rows of things. Beds in rows, plattei*s in rows, and 
the convoys to them, the cups, in rows. How often I long to launch 
them out on the high seas, the stitf-looking, long })ine taldes in 
rows. I Avant, too, to split up those comfortless benches; hateful 
things! they half ruin my back, and liave cpiite ruined my tem2)er. 
Sister Barbara thinks the Devil is near and tempts me. She abvays 
gives him close proximity to every one, even to herself; and am 
sure she Avouldn’t draAV him. 1 imagine that the Devil loves to toi’- 
ment and tempt pretty people best ; for Avith them he can exercise his 
talents and gloat over his Satanic poAver. He can assail them, too, 
Avith a greater prospect of success. Their jironeness to sin is Avell 
knoAvn, Avhile ugly or ill-favored ones stand jmre, unassailed, until 
the Judgment. 

The Devil has never been near Sister Barbara, de})end upon it ! 
They who are nevei' tempted can preach long sermons, holding 
themselves u|) as examples. One might as Avell say noisome Avee<ls 
Avere as pretty and desirable to have Avith us as tlu' sAveetest rose of 
the garden, as to say beauty is Avorthless. 

This letter is not to be seen here. I can get it out with money— 
I have money. I bribe a person to be secret. I liave to tell you a 
sad story Avhich I tried to put off to the last, as we put off’ all unplea- 


BEEENIOE. 


:V.) 

sjiiit tasks. Sister Agatha is dead ! There, don’t grieve, for sht* 
died so sweetly, and she did not desire to live. She si)oke of “ dear 
little Enth,” before her death, and hoped that you would sing to 
her in Heayen. She was so loyely in her coffin — so life-like ! Tliat 
pleasant exi)ression on tier lips that she had when she gaye us our 
own way in the cloyer. (x4h, that sweet cloyer field ! It is a garden 
now, laid out in walks— quite ruined.) Many of the children died 
since you left us ; many have gone away. The (Tennan girl, Ka- 
trina, with the pale blue eves- — like the broken pieces of china she 
gave you as a souvenir at parting — is doing well. She often asks for 
you when she comes to see us. But, Euth, she is so coarse. I can’t 
think that her peo})le could liave been like ours. And that remark 
reminds me of youi- request. I regret to say that nothing of your 
parents is kmnvn ; no record is here of anything but your name, age 
and day of admission. MTiat a wee, wee thing you were! Ko doubt 
your mother died in one of the epidemics. Trust never more in 
dreams or four-leaved clovers. According to their promises I would 
have Vmen in Heaven long ago. Isn’t it strange to ycm that I am in 
the asylum all this time. I'll tell you how it came. Ijetters from 
Europe have l)eeii received. Eelations of nn^ mother have inter- 
ested themselves about me. I am a boarder — only think of it, a 
boarder — and have at times a little pocket money; think of that, too. 
Euth, yt)u remember how I wept and wept my eyes nearly out, about 
my mother’s death V AVell, that \\ asiiT my mother after all — my 
father’s second wife only. Oh, my ! the tears, the tears for nothing. 
My own mother died when I was born. As to my father, he never 
petted me much, and married soon after my mother’s death, though 
really Ids wife was very tender and kind to me. She is welcome, 
since I think of it, to all her grief. Do I improve, think you, in my 
wilting V I study hard. Next Sining I am to go to my relatives, 
and, of course, I want to put the best foot foremost. To Europe ! 
1 shudder at the thought. How shall I like them V How will they 
like me V AVasn’t my prophecy light ? AA"e shall not meet ever 
again. I cry every time I think of it. I Avonder if you Avill know 
me Avhen we meet in a “better land?’’ You must imagine me ever 
so much taller than you saAV me, and thin, oh! so thin. “Growing,” 
they say. EeaUy, I might be taken for a stray cloud of smoke that 
had bloAvn hither. YTm can continue to write me all your secrets, 
as no one will ever see your letters. I have secured a friend, so they 
will be for my eyes only. TeU me of that gentleman again Avho for- 
Avarded my letter. I feel sure that something for your good Avill 
come of it. As to the Avicked, hateful Berenice, I Avalk the floor 
abusing her. AVith the most Avithering scorn I look at her ; no one 
sees or hears, but it does me good. This is the only redress I liaA e 
for youi* grievances. Oh, T aaTsIi I Avas for one month at the Alount. 


40 


BERENICE. 


AVoiikln't I torture, her I Write often. I wiU answer with dispat(;h. 
Let us enjoy this intercourse while we can, for too soon we will he 
])arted hy the great, cruel ocean. 

God hless my own Ruth. Eunice. 

P. S. — Poor AVinnie ! I pity her and almost loA e her, from your 
<lescription of lier goodness and dependent state. Wliat was I about 
to say ? Surely not to wish that she would die, nor to wish that you 
would leave her. TitiIy I know not what to hope for; God will make 
all wrongs light. To Him we leave all. 


CHAPTER VI. 


THROUGH A STREET PAVED WITH GOOD INTENTIONS. 

A morbid dread of Berenice, from this night took possession of me. 
I trembled at her footstep ; my cheek whitened; my heart throbbed 
at the sound of her voice. I Avent no more to the library, but every 
week I found some ne^sv and often beautifully embeUished works 
upon my table. I feared to ask Avhence they came, I kne-w without 
asking. About a month after the scene between Eric and Berenice, 
I w^as fonnally summoned to Mrs. GaulPs jiresence; the “Garden of 
Gethsemane,” with its palm and olive trees, and the soft moonlight 
fading on the bowed head, reminded me of the day of my arrival, my 
promise, and its cost. Time and sorrow^ during the years of my life 
with the “Lady of Mount Marah,^’ had been busy. Her once beautiful 
hair w^as threaded with silver; lines w^ere carved about her sad, sweet 
mouth. I w^as thinking of the change when she turned to me in an 
abrujit, nervous manner, saying: “My promise to you has not 
been fulfilled, as yours, made at the same time to me — I have been 
neglectful. I propose now, to make amends as far as I can do so. 
Lost time never returns to us ; still, as you are young and apt, you 
may in a measure, make up for my remissness. Will you endeavor 
to be wiiat you might have been, long ago? But first let me ask: Will 
you forgive me ?” I solemnly declare to you, my dear Ruth, my in- 
tentions were not that you should be a slave to me, or to my child. 
I however meant to perform what I promised the day you came to 
me. Again I ask: “Will you forgive me for m3* neglect ?” 

I thought strange that she gave no cause for her remissness. Still, 
I answered in a christain spuit as I had been taught in childhood: 

“Forgive you ! 3'es, w*ith all m3" heart, 3'et how" can I promise 
farther. How can I promise to study? Who will care for Winnefred 
when my attention is otherwdse engrossed ?’^ 

“I w*ill, my health is improved; she is, I ma3* sa3*, entii’eri well, 
ph3*sicall3". Thanks are due to you, m3' blessing ! Heaven sent in 
my need! But about 3"our future and m3’ plans for it — we remove 
to the cit3’, passing there the Winter and Sirring, w"here you shah 
have the finest opportunities for improvement. You w’iU like the 
cit3’, I am sure.’’ 

8 


412 


BEKENICE. 


“ Does Berenice <»() with us ?” asked I, deejdy interested in her 
reply. 

“ As a natural consequence of iny leaving here, she must gx). But 
we will scarce feel the annoyance, life is gay at all times, and es- 
pecially so, when the facilities for pleasure are numerous and A'aried 
a sin our gay metropolis. Bye the hye, Ruth, 1 fear she is unkind to 
you ? Just as she was when you first came here ?” 

“ Yes, equally so.” 

“ She will not trouble us much longer, thank heaven !” 

“AVhat will relieve us of her presence, or rather relieve me ; for she 
<loes not trouble any one else !” 

'' She is to be married in the Spring.” 

“ Married ! To whom V” 

“ To Mr. Eric. They have l)een engaged a long time. I thought 
you knew all about it.” The dim ligiit kept my secret, while I in si- 
lence drew conclusions. They had made up the (piarrel. ’Twas 
natural that they should ; but, thought I, if he had only loved any 
one except one wlio hated me, I would have borne it meekly. Then 
a reckless humor canu} over me. I had not a care for wordly inter- 
ests or heavenly ones. MTiat was my A'oice tome? Life had no 
])urpose. The right to know who I was, whence I came, and what 
were the circumstances of my existence — that was mine. AVliat did 
Eiic allude to in talking to Berenice about a tragedy ? With all 
these questions pro2:)ounding themselves to me, I spoke to her as 
she sat looking in the tire, trying to break the silence, yet knowing 
not what to say. 

“ Mrs. (lault.” She started and turned toAvards me. I long 
have had a strong desire to ask questions that concern me deeply, 
of my parents— or at least of my mother, how and when she died, 
and Avhat mystery you keep from me.” 

Astonishment, or rather beAvilderment, aaxis in her ex})ression of 
hice. She did not reply, but sat aa ith her hands clas2)ed, motionless 
as the statues ])efore and around us. Her a2Ji)ealing silence, ^^itialJe 
as it Avas, goaded me to say more. 

“ Y’ears ago,” I continued, “ I had a fearful dream ; it has made a 
dee}) im})ression u})on nu*. When I Avas ill Avith fever, I saAv dis- 
tinctly a young, fair Avoman, Avith hair like strands of gold ; it Avas, 
in this dream, dyed Avith blood She Avas lying on the ground, and 
I beside her, dabbling my baby fingers in the crimson horror I 
]\Iost fearful, most real Avas this dream.” 

No comment ; no ansAver. Her hands Avere held u}) inqjloringly. 
Then she })ressed them doAvn OA^er her closed eyes, as if to shut out 
the S})ectre I had raised. After slie greAV someAvhat com})osed slie 
ansAvered : 


BERENICE. 


48 


“ Think of prist di-eains no more, I beseech you. Tell of them no 
more. Never to any one — never to me.” 

“ But I must think, and Avonder, and conjecture about my mother’s 
death. I thought the golden hair was hers. . How did she die V 
You know.” 

“ Yes, I do. I ought to know. AYhat would your feelings be 
toward those Avho had undesignedly caused her death ?” 

My heart swelled in unjust indignation. I replied excitedly: 

“ I woidd hate them as long as I had life !” 

I ceased speaking, for 1 had observed to my astonishment, that 
Berenice was in the room looking upon us. A sinister smile upon 
her handsome face told me she had been a listener. There was a 
moment of silence. I hoped we were to be loft to ourselves. Bere- 
nice remained, looking steadily at me, intending nothing should be 
said without her hearing it. It was not possible for me to let Mrs. 
Gault know that we were not alone. She had not cast a glance 
in that part of the room. She seemed rather to be looking for sym- 
pathy unto her Savior, kneeling in the Garden of Gethseniane. 

“ See,” said she, turning to me with tearful eyes, “ He forgave. 
We, who have need of mei'CA', are not merciful. It is written in 
truth: 

Mon write; tlieir wrongs in marbb' : 

He more just, 

Stooped down Divine 

And wrote His in the dust.” 

Ruth, what has changed your heart ? You never failed me until 
now? Your nature is warped; you are cruel and vindictive.” 

“I am to you, as ever, faithful, true; I do not forget our bond. 
Naught but death shall part us; coldness, neglect, cannot estrange me 
from you. I know not the truth or depth of your sorrows, whether 
they are imaginary, self-constituted or real; still I am your friend, 
yoilr slave if it needs be. I spoke in bitterness of those who caused 
my mother’s death. My hatred to them had nothing to do Avith 
you ?” 

“ There is no better time than this to tell her Avhat she ought to 
have knoAvn long ago,” said Berenice Avith a hard, metallic ling in 
her voice ; adding, after a moment’s a pause : “She can but hate you, 
and what does her love or hate signify to you, the ‘ Lady of Mount 
Marah.’” The shock of beholding Berenice Avas evident.” 

“Yes, I implore you,” said I AAuth Aehemence. “Tell me! for the 
loA’^e of your mother, for my mother; for the Ioac of Him there 
kneehng m the garden ; tell me all?” I Avaited for an aiiSAver, but 
none came. She had SAVOoned aAvay, and Avas more like the dead 
than the living. The question haunted me day and night. AYhat 
AA'as it that they dared not tell me ? Should Berenice solve the 
mystery for me ? No! I could ask nothing of her. 


44 


BEKENICE. 


One of the days peculiar to our Autumns, was the one after the 
unsatisfactory inteiwiew. If it had not been for the trees of gold 
and red that gleamed like triumphant banners among the evergreens, 
one would not have knowi\ it to be Fall. Winnie and I at midday 
were preparing for a ramble in the woods, when, to my astonishment, 
Mrs. Gault proposed accompanying us. Out of sight and hearing 
of Berenice, she seemed to be a different being. With her soft, 
pleading voice, she spoke as we rambled on in the deep wood. 
“ I have many things to tell you, Ruth ; thinking I was equal to the 
effort last night, I tried; you saw the result. 1 am a poor, weak 
(feature ! But then, there are things of life and its fatalities 'twere 
better we never knew. May not this be one of them 

“ Suspense is the worst imaginable torture; I know enough to 
make me wish to hear more. I wish I knew nothing.” 

‘‘ What do you know ?’^ 

“iThat there are events, thought to be sad, or too hemous in their 
sinfulness for me to hear, connected with my history.’^ 

“ It may be so; time will reveal all; God will judge all. I am with 
you to-day, not to speak of youi* antecedents, for I cannot, but to tell 
you something of a different nature to contradict an asseriion I made ' 
to you. Berenice will not be married to Mr. Eric as I supposed. 
He bade me adieu this morning, perhaps never to return to Mount 
Marah. This change of affaii’s overthi'ows many of my best plans 
for your fiitime. However, what I have promised, and more, shall 
be fulfilled. You are henceforth to be recognized as the daughter 
of my adoption. A^ou have an enemy, a very imscmpulous one, but 
by your truthfulness and goodness, you wiU reign above her. It is 
lieyond the power of conjecture to fix any time for the event of her 
marriage. She has many suitors, and it cannot be glossed over, she 
is a flirt. Yet, she really loved Eric; he is the only one she has ever 
c*ared for. She has deceived many. His leaving her, is retributive' 
justice.” 

“ How could Air. Ethel give her up ? With her fascination and 
her beauty, how strange ! She was not his destiny ; the Lord has 
some sweet, gentle woman allotted out for him I hope. But why 
did theyjiari?” She was asking herself this question; adding at the 
same time, “ Eric was non-communicative about it. He ought not 
to have been with me, I alwavs, from the first, wished him a better 
fate.” 

She continued to speak of the subject: “Strangely enough, evils 
often become benefits. The breaking oft* of this match has its ad- 
vantages to you.” 

“ To me ! In what way ?” asked I wondering if it were possible 
she could know of my foolish preference for Eric. 1 was relieved as 
she explained: 


BERENICE. 


45 


“ You have endured a great deal from Berenice; I do not hold 
YOur sufferings lightly; 1 must exact a promise of secrecy from you 
as to my intentions. But no, it is enough to ask you to be silent 
Eric being poor, as his wife I could not have deprived her of the 
fortune which would have benefitted him through his alliance with 
her. He is my best friend, and was my husband’s; she shall now never 
have it. Think of her with wealth; the arrogance she would as- 
sume ; the triumph over you. No, no, she must be made to feel 
what she has made others feel, dependence. My life with her has 
been one long misery. She has been a dark cloud of my existence ! 
My endeavors to win her good-wiU by kindness, were aU in vain. 
Her cruelty to you has brought my dislike to aversion.” 

“Has she not an indisputable right to the foidune, no matter how 
great your objection may be to letting her have it?’^ 

“How? The daughter of my husband by a previous connection, 
a most unhappy and ill-advised one, made in boyhood and regretted 
for a life time. A history hke a thousand others of woman’s wiles 
and man’s weakness; of woman’s worthlessness, her perfidy, and 
man’s consequent ruin. I unconciously through the will of another, 
held out my hand and drew him fi-om the slough into wliich she 
had cast him. Berenice is like her mother. He would not have 
desired that she should inherit my wealth to apply to base purposes, 
to oppress the sorrowful, and lead a useless and voluptuous, perhaps 
a depraved life. You understand, this is my inlieritance of wEich I 
speak ? My husband’s wealth was lost upon her mother, or upon 
the follies into which her wickedness led him. I say again, it shall 
not be her daughter’s, since Eric is not to be benefitted by it.” 

“ Is Mr. Eric related to the family ?” 

“No, he was as I just stated to you, a friend of my husband’s from 
boyhood. Eric had means, and expectations also; but was destined 
to find himself, by a freak of fortune, past youth, poor, and with the 
doubtful chance of succeding in a profession, followed only to meet 
the exigency of his altered circumstances. Perhaps this change in 
his prospects is the cause '(or the accessory one) of his separation 
from Berenice. Eric is a proud man.” Through the rest of the 
<*onversation I saw not my advantage. 


CHAPTER VII. 


It was a lovely Autumn day. We were speeding onward to tlie 
(•ity through the forests of Mount Marah. The quiet and sombre 
beauty of the woodlands set me to dreaming — fair Avaking dreams 
they were, with my mirage in the distance. 

I was out in the gTeat world of which I had read. At my voice 
the hearts of the multitude thrilled as with one throb. I had gained 
the Inner Temple, and had lain my offering upon its altar. Fame 
had filled the void of love. The bii-d cleaving its way through the 
hazy sky Avas an exemplification of my course. I might Irie but a 
brief and meteoric life, but I Avould Irie in the glorious and grand ; 
and then I Avould have a grave under the fioAvery earth, and a niche 
in the temple, Avhere, in the days to come, a gray-haired man Avould 
pause, and Avith a fiush of sweet memories, exclaim : 

“ Ruth ! Ruth ! in marble. I wonder if she thought of me AA'hen 
the world’s adulation verified my Avords ? Had my proi)hecy aught 
to do Avith lier life ?” 

Ah ! if he Avill onty come aaIicii I am dead, to shed one tear at my 
grave, my life Avill liaA^e its reAvard. He told me of the need in my 
lieart, and Avhy, through soitoav and misfortune, a mysterious poAver 
lifted me above tliis material life and its discordances. Let him be- 
hold Ruth in marble. That is all I ask. I must be Avorihy of the 
life-long sacrifice Eric Ethel made. He loved; he lost that love for 
me. The voice of my companion aroused me from my train of 
thought. 

“ Ruth, your eyes are charming in that mood. They have under- 
gone, A^ithin the last twenty minutes, as many changes of expression. 
AUoav me a ghnipse of your air-castles. Are the}^ built in the shift- 
ing soil of impossibilities, or are they merely improbable ?” 

“ ’Twas really a castle-building dream of mine just then; my 
to Avers were far in the ether of impossibilities, I fear.” 

“ Was it of the future ? But Avliy do I ask, knowing the past to 
be but the ashes and ruins of edifices built and trodden doAvn long 
ago in the highways of life ? What if I draAV out a future for you V 

“ Proceed, by all means.” 

“ Let me begin by saying that you are exceedingly fair. Telling 
you so aaIU not spoil one so sensible. Mr. Ethel thinks so. You 
blush at that. He is not the only one avIio decides a fact AA^hich can 


BERENICE. 


47 


not l)y the most fault-finding^- he questioned. Speaking- of you hy 
comparison, another says : ‘ Ruth’s beauty is 2:)resent, glowing, tan- 
gible ; while Berenice is a memory of one’s boyish days. She has 
passed two transitions; in the third she is the faded rose. It is 
much to have youth and beauty.- ’’ 

“And is not goodness more than beauty ?” 

“ In copy-book maxims it is, but the assertion is contradicted in 
life every day. I think the possession of beauty is an advantage 
morally, as it tends to make us thankful and reverential for its pos- 
session.” 

“Not all of its possessors are made better by the gift. It’s in- 
fi lienee over me as a child was very decided. I prayed to be fair.” 

“ You have your desire. The tint of your hair, alone, is beyond 
(‘omparison. Brown, verging on a warmer hue.” 

“ Speak plainly. It is too warm to please most people.” 

“ It harmonizes with your rich complexion, gotten by out- 
door life, and yours, by right, of a fine constitution.” 

I need not boast of it failing me, as it did, like a false friend in 
the hour of need.” 

“ That was under a fearful ordeal; you suffered for me — through 
my weakness. I was not a responsible being. Eric Ethel reproached 
me, lajfing the acts undone before me, making my remissness plain. 
I tliank him for it now.” 

“ So do I,” was my thought. “ I thank my Creator for creating- 
him.” The chari of my life was not made out. Beauty and youth 
were left without a course, an end or an aim. I stiU sat dreamil}" 
looking out of the window at the woods in the distance, concluding* 
that the free life of Mount Marah was, perhaps, sweeter far than any 
other, vagrant though it was, and that solitude to some natures 
would prove the greatest, the best boon of life. Mrs. Gault again 
interrupted ^ly refiections. 

“You are unhappy, I fear,” said she; your eyes, with their far- 
away look have, as Shelley sai^s, ‘ the regret of Proserpina for the 
fields of Enna.’ ” 

“I have no fields of Enna to regret.” 

“Tmeyou have not; still you resign some enchanting cfr-eani, 
some bright hope, to serve me. Your life in my service seems an 
aimless one.’^ 

“ At times the thought forces itself upon me, I ask myself, and 
now I ask you, Avhat good am I realri doing ?” 

“ You arc a blessing to me. I could not live without you. What 
are j^our longings ? I might, at least, assist you in attaming them. 
In you there is always a Star of Betlilehem shining for us. To be 
practical, eschewing sentiment, tell me how to aid you.” 

“You can do nothing. Your path in life is so far from mine. How 


48 


BEKENICE. 


i'.ould the Lady of Mount Marali serve me ? I am only a menial — 
Winnefred’s nurse.” 

“ From the first day you came to me, though I defined fully your 
position to Berenice, and to all in the house, I endeavored to prove 
that your poverty was to be no barrier to you socially. It shall not 
be. You must go into the world; your life is too lonely.” 

“ The world ! I have a pm*ely ideal one. Those whom I see 
daily do not belong to it.” 

“ Your kindred spiiits are faultless creations, not prone to human 
frailties.” 

“ I shrink from the selfish and time-serving. I am not brave 
enough to encounter the queens of society, who brush past me with 
their royal robes. The asylum Hfe is a blot. Nothing can wash out 
the stain.” 

“ Are you sure of this prejudice having existence ?” 

“ Only too sure for my own peace. My presumption • would be 
punished; I should be driven back to nw i3roper s]3here with an 
aching heart.” 

“ It is a duty I owe to you and to myself to contradict false asser- 
tions as to your standing here. I have neglected you. I will make 
amends. I want them to hear your voice. Your being hidden away 
at Mount Marah is a reproach to me. Mr. Ethel told me that I had 
waited too long to render you justice, and I have. I shall call upon 
you to carry out my views within a week. Look your prettiest, 
when I do.” 

“I might waive my objections; but one arises which can not, I 
fear, be set aside — loss of time, rehearsing toilets, as I hear Berenice 
and others, Avhether shall be worn, mbies or emeralds, diamonds or 
opals, satins or velvets ?” 

“ I decide all questions of the kind. You need not lose a mo- 
ment.’^ 

I have seen many a one since then whose heart was in seance while 
in a crowd. My abstraction was but a poor return for Mrs. Gault’s 
kind interest. She felt it, and sj)oke petulantly. 

“ You will walk to the mirrors, I suppose, to see the effect of my 
efforts V You manifest no interest in what is important to us. 
Every woman should try to look well. She owes it to her God. 
Furthermore, the jewels from this moment are all yours. 

My neck and arms were flashing with a thousand irradiations. 
Wandering into a fairy world I had yielded to the magic wand of 
the Queen of Fairies. 

I had one ^’earning — other eyes to rest on me. Dear eyes, I saw 
them now no more. The wish annulled the dream wish of a month 
before, when I looked through a vista of years. I had won, after 
death, a niche in the temple, and an old, white-haired man stood 


BERENICE. 


B) 

there, leaning u 2 )on his staff, in mute approval of niy life’s completed 
task. As I stood before the mirror, I asked nwself would I be to 
him a cold, passionless piece of marble, when at that instant, as I 
thought of him, mv veins surged back and forth like a restless sea. 
At the touch of his hand, or the tone of his voice, would not my heart 
tluill in tumultuous j^assion ! Think of it, oh, my soul ! Decide for 
me. Answer me, my arbiter. What do I crave V My heart and 
my reason replied : “ Immortality stalks about in grave clothes. It 
has skeleton lingers, sightless eyes. Names and deeds graven on a 
cold, hard stone. This is the award of immortality. Love is life, 
hope, joy, desire, bhss. Oh, live and love ! ’Tis better than a thou- 
sand marble Ruths, or a niche in every temple in every land, from 
the tropics to’ the poles! Are love and fame incompatible? With- 
out the former the harvest of the latter is not worth the garnering. 
Wa\4ng back the hand that holds the myrtle and laurel, without the 
rose, Ave say, after the long strife : 

Ye need not crown my brow nor wreathe my urn, 

It comes, alas, too late— 

My dead heart hath no aspiration now : 

No eravin^^s to be great. 

True, ’tis all too true, that I did toil 
For those undying leaves. 

True, but then I saw, amid each coil. 

The rose among the sheaves. 

Here my reverie Avas broken; the shrine, the pilgrim, and the 
marble Ruth passed aAvay. The form in the mirror had set me to 
(h-eaming of marble. 

“ What shall I do for the magician ?” exclaimed I turning to Mrs. 
(fault. 

“Sing some Avild, })assionate, thrilling melody. Make them adore 
the iieAV face and A oice, that is all your friend and magician re- 
quires.” 

In delighted surprise I looked long at the tout ennemhle, from the 
head (Avhich had just at that moment been pronounced a classical 
one,) to the feet, so small and shapely. The praise of my voice made 
Berenice pale under the rouge. AYlien a painted Avoman suffers 
from strong emotion, the effect is a ghastly mockery; the cheat is 
plain. Her hate Avas shaping itself, soon to become tangible. I 
had crossed her path again. That night Avas one of triumph, but 
like all meteors; it dazzled to die out and leave the Avay darker than 
before. I overheard many comments upon my voice and her sin. 
“ Her song touched my heart, and that is what artistic singing rarely 
does,^’ said a lady near me, as I arose from the piano. And another 
voice came to my ear breathing treasured Avords. “Such a voice, and 


50 


BERENICE. 


such execution ! I thought she was but a rustic, and suno- onl v 

madrigals.” 

“ Who is the lad\' ?” asked another. 

“An adopted daughter of Mrs. Gault.” (The reply was in hear- 
ing of Berenice.) 

“ In Europe she would be a piinia donna.'’ 

In her haughtiest, coldest mood Berenice seemed, still, in the 
world of fashion, a sovereign, but her sceptre and her crown were 
fast fading from her. 

“ How much you are admired to-night,” whispered Mrs. Gault, in 
an almost childlike state of dehght. 

“ No wonder, when your lingers adjusted every fold and every 
tiinket that adorns me. The poetry of dress is sweetly and har- 
moniously expressed in mine.” 

“ Your comparison may be just. Poetry may exist in dress as in 
motion. Poetry is harmony; harmony of colors is the victory of 
refined taste over the vulgar. How cpiiet Berenice is to-night,” she 
remarked, looking at Berenice sitting apart from the crowd. 

“ A decitful calm,” I answered, for I knew by intuition that it 
was so. 

“ You have evidently been the attraction of the evening, as I an- 
ticipated. Do you regret following my advice?” 

“ I do not, so 'far; but regrets are the ghouls that (‘.onie after the 
feast.” 

“ You anticipate evil. Wait until it appears.” 

“ You do not observe what has been plain to me all night — th(‘ 
stare and the whisj)ering. They are talking of me and of you. I 
heard them discussing my poverty and my origin, after they praised 
my singing. Let this be the last attempt to infuse water, wliich 
springs from the earth, into wine, that can be none the better for the 
weakening. The tide is against me, and, truly, I am inert and in- 
different. Yet, I am wounded at the msult to you.” 

Before the night was over, Berenice approached me, smiling. I 
stood in wonder, waiting for her words. 

“ Your appearance to-night has sui’i^rised many. They are asking 
wliere you came from.” 

“ Indeed! Why didn’t you tell them ?” 

“ Spoil a grand entree with such tales ? Your ambition must be 
satisfied for the present. You have been one of us for a few hours.'’ 

“ You mistake; my aspirations are far above pleasures like these. 
Life in a better sphere I require for my contentment.” 

“ The reign which an acknowledged beauty holds does not suffice ? 
True, to some it is brief, but to others the time when they cease to 
enthrall mankind is never known.” 

“Were it endless it would not satisfy me.” 


BERENICE. 


51 


“ What do voiiwaiit? What is the eud you have in \iew P 

“Nothin" that you can help me to achieve. You are the last one 
I would ask for a favor or make a confident of?^ 

“ Suspicious ! unforgiving ! You have no magnanimity in your 
nature, Ruth Ward.” 

“I suppose not. Have you any other comments to make concern- 
ing my frailties? Let me hear all at once.” 

“None. I came to ask you to accept my sincere regTets for many 
unaniiable acts of mine, but your irritable manner led me into con- 
tention. My astonishment was too plain. “I am sorry,” said I, 
I misunderstood your purpose and acted according to feelings 
dominant with me.” 

“You will be surprised to hear that after all antagonisms, we 
are called as yoke-fellows to drag one load; heavy load it is. We 
should be less estranged for, with the new bondage, friendship is 
Jill that could make it tolerable.” 

“What riddles! How can you and I in our future feehngs and 
actions, s;)mibolize so sacred a bond as friendship? Friends die for 
each other. There is no sacrifice too sublime and entire for people 
actuated by fiiendship.” 

“As Damon’s, for example.’’ 

“Yes, or Achilles.'’ 

“Or Alcestis? Words wasted; I never can be your friend.” 

“So let it be. So it must be. You divide the question. Fearful 
trials surround us, you cannot avert them no more than I. Friends 
or foes, we suffer together.” 

“ Can I have to suffer more than heretofore ?” 

“You will. Have you observed nothing strange in the actions or 
conversations of any member of our family ?” 

“ Nothing whatever.’’ 

“ Short-sighted indeed you are ; I hoped you were in a maimer 
prepared. After they have all gone, come to my room; (;ome Avith- 
out fail, I Avould like to have a seiious talk with you.” 

A serious talk! YIa" heart sank with an indescribable dread. What 
could she have to say to me. 

I remember Berenice more vividly in tAvo scenes of our conflicting 
lives, with their antagonistic natures, than all our associations. 
The first time Avas Avhen her hair fell like a black cloud over her 
AA-hite-robed, voluptuous form ; I stood trembhng beside her, quailing 
under her angiw gaze. The second, the night of my victory over 
her, how diff’erent. I, in my Avomanhood, conscious of my poAver, 
conscious of my beauty and of my God-given gift, the terrified 
shrieking, humble child no more, but a youthful rival, contesting 
Avith her the palm of beauty, the admiration and approval of the 
Avoiid. I had youth, its freshness, its vitality ; she had not. The 


52 


BERENICE. 


"uests had gone ; the house was silent; I went to her room, her 
luxurant hair was unbound as when I saw it for the first time. Her 
eyes had no defiance now, the lids closed often as she spoke. I 
noticed, too, a weary look in them ; unusual, too. With her own 
deep, devilish meaning, she spoke as I entered her room : 

“ Cinderella.” 

I trembled Avitli rage. 

“ Remember, Berenice, I did not come here to be taunted by you,” 
answered I, angrily. 

“Suppose, Ruth Ward, I do not choose to be pleasant, then it 
follows that I must be piquant. I may be taunting and insolent, 
Avithout being aware of it; my vein of humor may run into sar- 
casm.” 

“ You called me here to humihate and insult me. The circum- 
stances that compelled me to endure your insults exist no more. I 
will not bear your taunts. If you think to crush me, as you have 
heretofore, you will find yourself mistaken. Treat me civilly or let 
me alone, to-night. I am not very amiable.” 

“ I called you by that pet name of the nm’sery, ‘ Cinderella.’ 
AVasn’t she an exotic, like you? Had you only dropped a shpper 
and found the Prince’s favor, the story would be yours; only your 
prince is to come. Your fairy god-mother will doubtless secure 
liim.” 

“Poverty and servitude are not very easily forgotten. No 
fairy wand can gild or change a sombre background of my life’s 
picture. I know what I am and what I was. What I will be is not 
yet written. I have no control over the past. Of the future I may 
have.” 

“How sensitive you are. I merely jested with you. However, 
we are sj^ending time in recriminating. Let us speak of imporiant 
matters. You notice no change in Mrs. Gault within the last few 
months ?” 

“None whatever.’’ 

“ Her condition is really too fearful to contemplete. I cannot bear 
to tell you.’’ 

“AA^hy! AAdiat is it? Don’t, I pray, keep me in suspense.” 

“Mrs. Gault is mad! or will be in a short time; kept here, per- 
haps, chained! Or, if otherwise, the madhouse will receive her.” 

Not a word could I utter; I sat there staring in that pitiless face. 
I answered as I became calmer: 

“ Since we left the Mount she has taken an unusual part in every 
enjoyment. Do you think the interest she manifests in me a presage 
of insanity?” 

“ Perhaps none but a mad woman would have made an attempt 
to brave established jmejudices.’’ 


BERENICE. 


53 


“No; not that. Her care for you is highly commendable. Your 
devotion to her imbecile child ought to have gained you any favor 
in her power. As for me, I’d rather have been Andi’omeda chained 
to a rock, vultures to pluck my flesh from my bones piecemeal, than 
have been obliged to serve her as you have. There is no adequate 
recompense for such work.” 

“ Is there no way to save her ? By any sacrifice I would avert the 
doom.” 

“ AVe may, by kmdness and quiet, ward it oft' for a while. 8he 
should be kept in ignorance of her danger.” 

“ Kmdness ! Oh, if that were aU she needed. Heaven inspire me 
with knowledge — teach me what to do.” 

“ Do you observe how Dr. Moore watches her movements and 
how thoughtful and sad he is ?” 

“No; I never notice him at all. He thinks her case hopeless, vou 
say ?” 

“ Entirely so !” 

“ AVe need some Mend to direct us. AA"e must make an efti^rt in 
her behalf. If Air. Eric were here how glad I would be.” 

“ Can you recall him ?” she asked maliciously. 

“ I have heard nothing of him ” (through you, I might have 
added). 

“You never will, I imagine. Airs. Gault foresaw that this fate 
hung over her. AA^hat else would have made -her so gloomy V You 
should hear the history of her mother’s family.” 

“Not to-night; I am not eqiial to it. I wish I coidd die and leave 
aU this strife, this unforeseen sorrow.’’ 

“ Don’t worry about what can’t be helped. AA^e will talk it over 
to-morrow.’’ 

“To-morrow! I dread it. I wish it would never come. AA^orry? 
I mil woiTy.” 

I laid the jewels aside in disgust. AAdiat are they ! Could they 
make less bitter my woe ? A night of torturing thought passed 
away; until daylight I sat by the window leaning uj^on the sill, let- 
ting the cool night wind sweep over me. Aly brain w’as clouded in 
(onjectures — puzzled, be’wildered. Aly principle anxiety w^as to de- 
termine what course to pursue. AA’^hat should I do with AA'innefred ? 
How could we exist with Berenice ? and if w'e could do so, I knew 
she would part us. I detemiined to stmggie hard with the lillow^s 
that were fast sw^eeping us to destruction. 

■'Buttlie days of golden dreams had perished. 

And even despair was powerless to destroy ; 

Then did I learn how existence could be cherished. 
Strengthened and fed without the aid of joy.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 


HOAV PEOPLK OUTUKOW THEIH CLOTHE-; AND NOT THEUt AFEE(''TIONS, IS SHOWN 

IN THIS CHAPTER. 

EXTRACTS FROM RUTH S JOURNAI- 

The city residence of the Aubreys in the environs of the city, 
where, Tis true, they seldom resided, Avas a relic of the olden time : 
Avith its deep bayed windoAvs, massive doors, Corinthian columns, 
Avide galleries Avhich surrounded the whole building’, Through the 
thick foliage of magnolia and orange trees, scarce a ray of the sun 
could ever penetrate. The date of its erection Avas rudely cut upon 
a AA’liite slab set Cecrops-like in its Inoad front, a central eye. The 
name of ‘ Aubrey’ had been, in days past, a synonym for elegance and 
Avealth, honor and chivalry. Armand Aubrey, Mrs. Gault’s gTeat 
grand-father, had Avorn a Avig and tapjied a Louis Quartoirze snuff 
box at the court of that great monarch. He had here entertained 
his guests, (and perhaps loved them, ) talking of La Belle France, her 
Avomen and her Auneyards, her mountains and her rivers, her Avarriors 
and her statesmen, as only a Frenchman can estimate them. The 
representatLes Avere not the ones to perpetuate an aiistocracy. The 
piens of their greatness had died aAvay to a distant tinkling, an echo 
coming across the waste of time. Their city house Avas noAv a iieAv 
land mark upon a fashionable drive, giving locidity, measuring 
distance to and from other points. Finer dAvellings, modeiii ones, 
had less comfort than this old Aubrey house. AVinnie’s room, 
also mine, commanded a view of skillings of Avoods that lie a dark line 
against the hoiizon. A pretty apartment Avith fui'iiiture light and 
iieAV, gfr ing it a jauntiness in contrast AA’ith tlie heaAW architectural 
style of the doors, AAdndoAvs and mouldings. MTierever our eyes 
rested, Avithin or Avithout, there Avas everything to please, ladies in 
shoAA'y attire, aaTRi ribbons, feathers and laces, floating in the 
Autumn breeze, made pretty, Imng ])ictures for us, as they droA e I)y 
chattering and laughing merrily, AAotli attending cavahers. In the 
long years of hopeful and patient teaching of Winnefr’ed, the result 
had not been commensurate either aatRi our efforts or our hopes. 
Her thoughts and reasonings AA’^ere momentary Hashes — a chain 
broken at the moment when Ave had highest hopes of its (‘ontinuity. 


BERENICE. 


In looking- froin the windows at the far off wocjfls, I fancied she 
thought of her past life. Her yearning for niy presence, indicated 
hy her seeking me with her pitiful look and tearful eyes, and meet- 
ing me with expressions of joy, was deeply affecting. Her loye foi- 
me was the only yiyid emotion she had eyer known. Uiilike most 
of her order of unfortunates, she neyer exhibited impatience or anger, 
not in the slightest degree. 

I made a recpiest of the old (‘oacJnnan, Isaac, soon after my arri- 
val, to driye me to the asylum, the peaceful home of my childliood. 

“ AVhich one you mean, Miss Roof V” said he, doubtfully. “^You 
know dars more dan a dozen, dese days. But, I ’spec you means de 
one — dat one, Miss Roof; I hates to say it to you.” 

The old man entirely misunderstood my nature. 

“ Uncle Isaac,” said I, “ we both allude to the one you l)rought 

me from AVhy did you dislike to mention it ? Is it a disgrace 

to haye lived there V” 

‘‘ Not ’ceptin’ you thinks so, miss. I 'sposed since you growed uj) 
such a pritty young lady 3'ou wouldn’t like to ’member it.” 

“ I like to thinlv: of my old companions, and don’t care for the dis- 
grace of having lived in it.” 

“ Dat’s commendable, Miss Roof. Never forget in de Summer de 
trends dat kep us Avarni in de ^^hnter. You see, its ’propriate to 
me. I worked faithful for de white folks all de Summer of my yufe, 
and now when de Winter comes, de old man’s fixed for de rest ol) his 
<lays. But, ]Miss Roof, I never Iffeebed dat you could look like you 
<loes.” 

“ Time does much for us all. We change for better or for worse, 
as the years go by.” 

“ Yali ! yah ! He doin’ a heap for me, dat Time, gettin’ me ripe 
for de great liarvest. De Rea})er soon come for old Isaac.” 

“ Don’t say that you are likely leave us so soon. Y^ou will live 
to bury half the young ones yet ! T^ook at them. You are strongei' 
than Cyrus or Ephraim, at double their age.” 

“ Tank you. Miss Roof. As (xod’s will, I always say.” 

I confess my weakness. Isaac’s compliments caused me to linger 
at the hall mirror for at least five minutes. I had formed prema- 
turely an o2)inion of myself as to beauty, which was by no means 
favorable. My thin face, in the despised sun-bonnet, was not a 
2:)retty nor a contemjffation. I had watched with delight 

the growth of my cropj^ed hair, year by year, and the rounding out 
of the thin, sharp features, which lack of joy and lack of food had 
made cadaverous. AVas not my desire jiardonable ? AVhat woman, 
from the highest to the lowest, evei' valued the 2:)Ower of beauty at 
less than its worth V “ Ylan makes beauty in a woman her crown 
and sceptre.” The wisest and the wittiest would do well to 1 )arter 


BERENICE. 


5 () 

their gifts for beauty, 'were it possible. In my old home I first ob- 
served that places we have lived in for years look strange to us after 
absence. The paths we trod have become wider or narrower, or in 
some way changed to us. The old garden seat, where we read, 
dozed, talked or dreamed, has but a half-famihar look. I had 
thought the asylum a grand and imposing edifice. Even with its 
additional wings and other adjoinings, its insignificance disappointed 
me. The clover field had become the primest of all prim gardens; 
the symmetry was painful to eyes accustomed to ^^ilds and glens. 
Nothing natural, nothing awry, scarcely a stray leaf or blade of 
grass. “ A place for ever^dhing and everything in its place,” was 
the rule here, extending even to the uttermost limits. 

Methodical as Sister Barbara’s ways was the garden, with a long 
l)ed and a round one alternately, and vis a vis, verbenas, heaid’s- 
ease, violets to the right; verbenas, heart ’s-ease, \'iolets to the left; 
jonquils in borders, standing, sentry-like, around every bed, their 
spiral leaves and spears pointing upward, the guard of Oberon, to 
frighten little children when tempted to trespass across the boTindar^ 
of their serried file. Sister Barbara was pacing back and forth in the 
lower part of the garden, reading the “ Office.’’ I rang the bell, 
asking for Eunice. Her hthe form glided ^\dth inimitable grace into 
the parlor, peering through the darkness to find out who her visitor 
was. There was no recognition in her glance. Neither wnuld I, 
under other circumstances, have known her. I spoke earnestly, 
writhing under my disappointment of not being known. 

“ Eunice ! You do not know me ?” 

“ Oh, it is Ruth ! dear Ruth ! ” She caught me in her arms with 
a hysterical cry. “ Have you come at last ! And to think I did not 
know you until you spoke ! Your voice, Ruth, told me who you 
were.” She led me to the window. The brick wall of a great wing 
had made the parlor very dark. 

“ Come,” said she, “ let me see you by the light.” Then she fell 
upon my neck and wound her arms about me in her old, loving way, 
telling me that I was so x^i’^tty, and that it was no wonder she did 
not recognize me in such stylish attfre and imj^roved looks. 

“ And 3"ou, Eunice, you are changed! AU but 3'our great black 
eyes. Long hair I How came they to let it gi’ow ? It is blacker 
than it was, and so glossy! Your skin is pale, not white, but lovely. 
The x^ale tea roses we used to have at the Mount, smooth and w^axen, 
were the same shade. You are beautiful, elegant, sjfiendid looking! 
Don’t they tell 3^011 so here.” 

“ Who would tell me so ? Sister Barbara ? You forget her scorn 
of vanity, and the admonitions that ran into her long, j^rosy lectures 
on x:>ride and w orldliness.. I have that course of lectiu’es b^" heart. 
The^y have made me neither better nor w’orse than I would havt' 


BERENICE. 


57 


been without them. We get accustomed to rebuke when it is con- 
tinual. Hush ! Sister Barbara is coming; I hear her step. She 
wiU not know you, I’m sure.” 

“How stooped she is! How old!” thought I, advancing and 
greeting her. 

“Sister, I am truly glad to meet you once more. You do not 
recognize me, a wayward pupil of yours long ago.” 

“No, child, I do not. Wlio are you?” 

“Ruth Ward. I hoped 3^ou would not forget me.” 

“Can this tall girl be little Ruth Ward, the favorite of the house !’" 
said she kindly and fondly. “ Dear child how you have grown.” 

“ Is she not much prettier. Sister ?” asked Eunice mischieviously. 

“Prettier! foolish ghi! AVhat is beauty ? It exists only a brief 
season, and in its short he\"day often destrcn^s the soul.” Here was 
one of the old problems of childhood; the soul and eternal suffering. 
At the risk of hearing a lecture, I asked: “ Sister, please make it 
plain to me, how the soul can partake of conditions entirety antago- 
nistical? Mortal in sufferings with all mortal susceptibility to pain, 
yet immoidal in its endurance and imperishableness? I can onty 
understand how we might suffer for a limited period of time, say 
until our powers of endurance were spent.” 

We can suffer through ages, countless as the sands of the sea 
shore, as the drops of the sea, as the leaves of the forests; and 3"et 
our sufferings be but begun. You must have faults, else you are no 
christain. I tr}" to believe what we are asked to believe, but eternity 
gives me often deep thought; it did even when I lived here, when 
ever}^ day j'ou told me of it.” 

“ You doubt revelation ! A heathen, after all our teachings, after 
living from childhood in a pious familv" !’^ (Y^eiw pious, some of its 
members, thought I.) “ Pray unceasingty! earnestly! You will be 

lost! Toidures eternal will consume j^ou! Haste, pra\% lest it be 
too late — too late !” 

“ But, then,” I argued, “ I am not ^vicked. I injure no one. I 
have done much good. Think of what my life has been, and allow 
me, at least, for my submission to my fate and constanc}' to m^^ w’ork, 
some merit.’’ 

“Proud Pharisee! 3'ou are good! You pra^M Ah, yes; so did he! 
Your heart is a garden of tares ! The fi*uit is choked with the rank- 
(ist of aU poisonous weeds — unbehef.” 

“ Don’t argue ! She will never cease,’^ said Eunice, aside. 

Feeling the wisdom of her advice, I bowed my head in an attitude 
of meekness and self-conviction, as if there had suddenly" smote me 
a thought of my unworthmess. Eunice asked me if I would not 
like to see the children. 

4 


58 


BEKENICE. 


“ Very much, indeed; and, Sister, if you have no objection, 1 
^vill show you my child, who is nearly as large as myself.” 

This drew their attention, for the first time, to '\\hnnefred. As I 
brought her forward, Eunice observed: ^ 

“ There is scarcely an indication of her condition in her face. Ex- 
cept for the eyes one would discover nothing amiss.” 

Sister Barbara asked: 

“ Does she understand our conversation?” 

I imagined she intended to give her a lecture, and answered 
•quickly : 

“ Not at all." 

“ What a lovely face !" exclaimed Eunice, with true admiration. 

“ That foolish word again ! AVhat becomes of lovely faces ? Do 
they not wither, grow old and get disagreeable ? Think only of the 
soul, my children,the immortal part of us, which is lost through the 
prettiness you prize.” 

None of my little friends are left to greet me! Many were dead; 
others had gone away. New faces met my gaze. Dear Sister 
Agatha! Tears came when we spoke of her. “She was so good.” 
'“An angel upon earth," said every one. 

The thought had occurred to me frequently that Sister Barbara 
would be the person certainly knowing something of my parentage. 
Under the impulse of the moment, I asked the question : 

“Child,’’ said Sister Barbara, soothingly, “ do not think unkindly 
of me. Had I power to give you the information I would. Although, 
if I could do so, you might be more unhappy than now.’’ 

“ My mother’s name is all I ask to know, since all else is vain.” 

“ It was never misrepresented; there was no need of concealment. 
Indeed, Ilutli, I was not sufficiently interested at the time to hold 
in my memory through the intervening years, the x^i’^scise circum- 
stances of your coming hither.” 

When Eunice and I were left to ourselves she said, to console me : 

“ It maj'^ do you harm to tell you of your jjareninge. At that 
Great Day — only think of it, Ruth, how plain in these pretty 
words:" — 


■‘Wlicn tlio scroll of Life’s unrolled. 

When all secrets shall be told. 

Thou Shalt know.” 

“What will it be to me then, to know who my mother was. You 
are Sister Barbara, now, ethereahzed. What do we know of that 
Great Day ’ f you speak of ?” 

“ Ruth, don’t tallc so wicked. You are not ske^Aical, I hope ?” 

“ I have been tiled and made wicked. I can scarcely hope to 
meet my mother if she is in heaven. I would rather she were here 
on earth with me. I makes me rebellious to think of my wasted 


beep:nice. 


59 


life. Let us say no more. Tell me (if your relatives, and prospects, 
and of everybody and everything you love.” 

“ You are, so far, the onl}’ one in this world that 1 love. Don’t 
think me unnatui-al. Perhaps 5^011 will find, may-be, some day, that 
you cannot love people because you ought to do so; or it may be 
just as hard to cease to love them. Mr. Eric is far dearer to you 
than I am. Well so be it. I own I am provoked at it.” 

“ I wrote of Mr. Eric as a friend — a dear friend. He has not 
^5poken to me of love; I have no right to think of him otherwise 
than in friendship.” 

Our feehngs get beyond the boundary we mark out, without 
our knowledge. Yours have escaped your vigilance, depend upon 
it. Your right to love Mr. Eric can not be questioned. To him I 
would say: ‘Be sure you are off with the old love, before you are 
on with the new.’ If he is safe in this old affair of his, why should 
he not be pleased with i^retty, gentle Kuth Ward 

“ He is much older than I. He looks upon me as a child, and 
speaks to me as one.’’ 

“ And how did you like that style of address, ma chere V’ Speak 
candidly. 

“It was not pleasant at first; but I schooled my heart to it. I 
rather regretted the disparity of years. Now he is nothing to me, 
but in fiiendship; at least so I try to think of him.’’ 

“ Your success in fashioning your thoughts is but poor. We never 
look, as 3'ou do now, in discussing friends — you tremble like the 
leaves. But let us tallc of other matters. You have had a poor life 
of it. There is its history. What companionshij) could you have 
found with her all this long time in that lonesome place ?” 

“None: but out of the germ of pity there grew a strong affection. 
But I never forgot you. At last we meet: isn’t God too good to us?” 

“ This is a blesseci moment. A.\i, I had almost forgotten ! I have 
not told yet that within a week I leave here. My most august uncle 
wiU come to take me to his home in Paris.” 

“ The great, bustling European city of which I have read so much.” 

“ The same. Ruth, promise ; if I can ever write to you saying, 
‘ come,’ will yon respond to that summons ? After a while you may 
be free to do'what I ask. She is frail; she can not live many years.” 

“ That would be the keenest of sorrows; she is so fond of me. I 
love her. When she has no need of me — if I live to see that sad 
day — I will go to Paris, if I can do so. I have had hope and plans. 
Should I succeed, Paris and other cities will be my fields of toil. 
Then I shall meet you.’’ 

“ What projects have you ? What could you do ?” 

“ What a friend suggested. Don’t be too severe, and don’t tease 
me. Mr. Eric was that friend. He saw ^ffainly as you that I must 


()0 :BEEENICE. 

be one day relieyed of my duties. After that, wliat could induce me 
to stay one day mth Berenice ? Should I not have to work ?” 

“ Unless I could help you out of your j^overty, you would. "What 
Avork could either of us do ? ” 

“ Mr. Eric said that my voice, if cultivated, would make my suc- 
cess as a public singer positive.” 

“ Is he a musician himself?” 

“ He sings, and is master of any instrument he touches. You have 
never heard anything like his performance.^’ 

“ Never, I’m sure; first, because I have heard but few; second, be- 
cause I am not in loA^e with any one who is a musician, vocal or iiistru- 
mental. But really, your words bring back old recollections of your 
singing; even as a child, you had a fine A'oice. Sister Agatha spoke 
of it. She was sick, near the death, when I mentioned hearing from 
you.’’ 

“ Dear sister Agatha ! ” 

“ How will you prepare your voice ? You ai-e undertaking no tri- 
fling task- — a work of years, it seems to me.” 

“ It will be. I am studying noAV, under the care of one of the 
best masters, practicing often four and five hours a day.” 

“ You are in earnest?” 

“ Entirely. I have aspirations that astonish even myself.’’ 

“ With a voice, power of conception and fixedness of pui-pose, you 
will succeed, and perhaps be the finest singer of the day. I may 
hsten to you in Paris and throw garlands at your feet.” 

“I hope 3^ou may; but I must wait. My going to Paris is only a 
possibihty.” 

“ Does AIi-s. Gault encourage your idea of the stage ?” 

“ She knows not of it How could I say, ‘If your child dies, such 
and such events will follow ?’ Mr. Eric suggested to her the adA^an- 
tage of cultivating my musical talent.” 

“ You may make a name for yourself — you AA^ill; I predict it.” 

“ To know my own name just now would gratify me more than 
making a gi-eat one. I am for this, and other reasons, unsettled in 
mind. I am far from being happy.” x 

“ Of course you are not; you love. After that, one never is.” 

■“ How can you vouch for this ? You have had no experience.” 

“ Through books I gain the knowledge. I have looked with the 
eyes of others into human hearts, and oh, my darling ! tlie misery I 
have seen ! ” 

“ To have read of an^dhing but Death and Heaven, or Sin and 
Hell, I should think would have been impossible here.” 

“ I have slipped out from that dull routine of information, and 
how! One of the sainthest of the day scholars furnished me Avith 
brain food which I craved. Some of it sound and sensible, maki ng 


BEKENICE. 


G1 


me ever so mse ; at a cost, it is true, for in getting wisdom, I lost 
faith. Listen to my opinions of the opposite sex, sifted out of ideas 
fi'om the pen of experience. Never can I beheve one of them. They 
are cruel, selfish; they love little and not long.” 

‘‘What books do you read? I would avoid them. You must 
have happened upon one which I threw aside in disgust, after read- 
ing it — “ Charlotte Temple.” 

“ The very bitter apple that taught me not to bite.” 

“ Do you not regret the loss of faith in mankind ?” 

“No; the roses are stripped off to let me see the thorns. The 
bare branch is better than bleeding fingers.” 

“ Give me the roses and let me pay the penalty. Does not some 
one say that we do not reaUy live until we love ? You wiU, in your 
life at least, meet one who is true. You have prejudged all. I 
would not }deld my defenceless faith for your aimor of doubt. But 
it is getting late ; I must go. Of course we meet again often before 
you leave. I hate to think of your going. It seems I shall never be 
mth you any more.” 

Eunice left a week after. She came to bid me adieu. I had gone 
out with Mrs. Gault. I saw her no more until years had intervened. 

In the “ city of silent people ” tlie Aubrey tomb told its own his- 
tory of all who had gone through the dark way — life in the bud, life 
in the sere, in the early flush of youth and in its meridian. “ How 
many of your family have been buried here !” I remarked, as I read 
off the names, while standing with Mrs, Gault at the tomb. 

“ Many, indeed. Most of them died before my father or mother 
were born. The later dates are of my sweet, my beloved children.” 

“ It must have been a fearful trial to lose them.” 

“ Fearful, indeed ! I never have given them up; at least not with 
a Christian’s abnegation of earth-love. I yearn often to have them 
back.” 

“ You can not surely from your heart wish that ?” 

“ I do — I do. I would have them with me. This feehng is sinful. 
I know it. I accept in all humility this chastisement; but I can not 
change my desire.” 

“ If you have striven against the feeling, it is not sin. Your mea- 
gre interest in hfe, to the detriment of other fives, may be sin.” 

“ Selfish grief, such as I know mine to be, asks no sympathy, noth- 
ing but utter isolation from all fellowship. They thought at first I 
would lose my reason at my bereavement.” 

“ God has mercifully spared me. Think no more of your late sor- 
sows. Go back farther, to the brighter days. We all have them, 
except such as I, who have notliing.” 

“ I was happy in my girlliood. Many who were blest as I, lie here. 


BEKENICE. 


()2 

while I am left. It isn't merciful that I should be, when I have so 
longed to die. Is it for my sin ? It must be.” 

“ How differently you should feel; ho^w thankfully you should ac- 
cept the power given you to protect your child, to save her from the 
miseries of orphanage.^’ 

“ How easy it is to preach ! When I he here you will hear 
from others why I fall short of your standard. Pity me; be mer- 
ciful in your judgment; think of me as of one wEo threw her hap- 
piness away by one rash act. The history is easily told, or the 
main features of it. I loved not in vain, as some poor women do.. 
Yet I became the wife of the man I absolutely feared.” 

“ Tell me how such strange things came to j^ass. I maj^ pYofit by 
the lesson.’^ 

“ I want to forget the unfortunate act of my existence which col- 
ored the whole. Speaking of the past I hve through it again. I 
feel the importance of my trust. She is dependent; piteously so. I 
have wanted to teU you how she became what she is, mid have not 
the courage to do so.” 

“ Her malady is not hereditary, then 

“No. What led you to suppose it to be 

I evaded the question, and urged her to tell me what she had in- 
tended to teU. 

“There should be no mystery between us,” said she continuing: 

“ Yet there is more than one, I fear. That of my own being is a 
continued problem to me.” 

“ Certainly it is. I must teU you of your mother, at once. I may 
die, or worse than death might render it hniiossible.” 

“ What could be worse 

“Many things. Death is not a terror to such as I.” 

“Tell me now what you desire to tell me. No one is near.” 

“Where is Winnefred?” 

“ There, in yonder path. The trees and grass have given her new 
hfe. We will keep her in sight. Let us walk in the avenue. There 
is not a soul to overhear our conversation.” 

In an instant. Uncle Isaac approached us, hat in hand, .and his 
best bow, saving : 

“ I’se come back for you, miss. Ain’t I leetle late. Here’s a let- 
ter for you. Miss Roof.” 

“ For me !” 

“ Yes, miss; and I bleeve dar’s a passel for you at de house.” 

“Apassel! AVhat’s that?” 

“A parcel, Isaac means.” 

The letter w^as in Erie’s handwriting. At sight of it, forgetting the 
history I was to hear, I hurried away, glad to reach home, that I 
might, in the quiet, read my letter. Mrs. (xault did not allude to it 


BEliENICE. 


63 


ou our way, not even to ask where Eric was. Did her woman’s heart 
interpret mine by my trembling hands, and by my losing interest in 
the story wEich w’ould have cost her so much to relate ? Did she 
not rejoice at the respite? 

The parcel contained books and music. The pledge of remem- 
brance was most gratifying, but the open defiance implied to Ber- 
enice, in the gift, I dreaded. I found that he had left the city a few 
hours before. In my first moments of delighted surprise, the fra- 
ternal style of his letter did not strike me. Passages of it I found 
to be, at least, equivocal in meaning. “ Your voice, ’W’ith its marvel- 
ous power, haunts me.” “ I have been near you, rejoicing when you 
were gay and hglit-heaided.” Sweet espionage ! But when was I 
gay ? At that hateful party ? How he was mistaken ; I was in tor- 
ture the whole evening. “ What is this mysterious affinity that 
makes every moment of your life of deep import to me ?” Ah, and 
yom*s to me ! “If you need me, I am at your bidding while I have 
life and 230wer to respond to your call. The question about your 
voice is decided, so I have heard repeatedly during my stay. No 
power could prevent you from winning fame, and what is even a 
better yieiding to the poor — emolument. Write to me. I would 
have your letter my travehng companion, if I could — a voice from 
home, for the South seems like my home. I commenced writing 
you merely a note and have written up my sheet of paper. I must 
make a bold resolve to quit, that I may not annoy you by giving you 
l)uzzles to read in crossed lines. Yours, Eric Ethel. 

“ You will find my address, for the time being, upon a card in one* 
of the volumes. Give me your thoughts of passages noted in ‘ Happy 
YaUey’. Think often of Eric.” 

Shading my eyes by the frosted, misty light of the astral, I seated 
myself for a cursory glance over my cherished volumes, looking, also, 
eagerly for the card '^Ith his address which was to be life to me ; to 
my poor doomed benefactress it might be even more than life. To- 
liim in our need we could apply, and depend upon his advice. I 
opened each book, over and over and over, strained them back and 
forth almost out of their covers, but the address was not to bo 
found. Passages I looked for, which he told me he had marked, ex- 
l^ecting comment of my own iiureturn — a communion of thoughts. 
Avhich I would have eagerly enjoyed; but no tracings were there. 
This was but trivial, compared with the loss of his address. While 
I sat reading Eric’s letter, I saw Berenice pass slowly by the window, 
exulting, no doubt, at my discomfiture. She had stolen the address 
and erased the notations. 


CHAPTEE IX. 


“Asleep, under the linden trees. 

With rosemarys in her folded hands.” 

Berenice became the bride of Br. Moore. The dread of the 
future for uiy benefactress pressed itself upon me vaguely and at 
distant intervals. Her actions were at this time, if not altogether 
consistent, quite in keeping with her strange character. I could not 
by asking questions of myself, disturb the serenity which she so 
needed; not if my hfe remained a mystery unto its close. 

We had left the city early in the Spring, on account of the failing 
health of Winnefred. Her decline had been rapid, without any ap- 
parent cause. We resumed our old regime; arising with the birds, 
we caught the first notes of their morning carols. W^e gathered 
flowers, we went to the stream where in childhood we had played, 
sometimes aU day; but the old routine did not interest her. Yet 
even her indifference to trifles which were once her dehghts, gave us 
hope. As in the lives of the more gifted, there were to her eras, 
transitions, each having its own tastes and idiosyncrasies. “Child- 
hood has been succeeded by the thoughtfulness of maturer years,” 
we said. 

Berenice returned with her husband to Mount Marah. I expressed 
my chagrin and disappointment at their early return to Mrs. Gault. 

“ Ah, Ruth !” said she, “ your dishke to her is just, but it is not 
generous.” 

“ My dread of her is positively far greater than my hatred. Did 
not you feel, two months ago, a fear of something from her agency, 
which you could not define ? Are you secure now ? Has her na- 
ture been regenerated since then ? Did Julian’s deatli appall her V 
I had a blessed consciousness of goodness, security and repose ; but 
with her return it has passed. Again, we are encompassed by ene- 
mies. Not for myself do I feel concerned. The annoyance she 
gives me is a trivial matter.” 

“ You think she would harm Winnie ? — poor Winnie ! You terrify 
me, Ruth ! Your fears correspond with a warning given me long 
ago. Would Dr. Moore allow her to do aught against any of us? 
I believe my secure and reliant feelings arise from my confidence 
in his good influence over her.” 

“ People have to be good themselves to exert a good influence 


BERENICE. 


(j5 


over othei-s; and if he be that, then are my instincts at fault. When 
he sits at our table I look under it for the cloven foot of Asmodeus. 
In his laboratory — in those mysterious bottles — I seek for the one 
with the Bottle Imp. I’d rather have a cobra capeUo my daily visit- 
ant, oj even take up entirely his abode with us, than Dr. Moore.” 

“ Scarcely can I recognize good Ruth in this harangue. You know 
nothing of Dr. Moore. He has never injured you.” 

“ True, madam,” answered a voice, which startled me. “ She tra- 
duces one who has ever had the kindest feelings towards her; who 
has admired and even venerated her for her devotion to you and 
your afflicted child.’’ 

Dr. Moore had been reading within hearing of the latter part of 
the conversation about him. My chagrin can be imagined. I would 
rather have told him, face to face, every word, than be surprised in 
this way in speaking of him. 

Neveidheless, there was little regret. Let what is wiitten be writ- 
ten, and what is said be said, thought I. The influence against me, 
of my heartfelt, heart-prompted words, wiU be evident in the events 
Avhich followed. 

Winnie grew worse. Dr. Moore always disarmed the mother’s 
fears. Truth began to be too plain for concealment; she, too, began 
to doubt the devotedness or the skiU of our physician. Day by day 
Winnefred grew weaker and weaker. At last she could only ride 
out, and again even this ’^as, of necessity, to be given up. She was 
really ill. Upon Dr. Moore we relied for medical aid. I felt the 
strongest desire to call in a consulting physician, and urged the pro- 
priety of doing so. One day I had been unusually importunate ; the 
result of our conversation was the following words: 

“ Ruth, you must have heard that Dr. Moore is an old practitioner, 
standing at the head of his profession.’’ 

I replied readily, yet most unwisely: 

“ You can’t by telling me of his abihty remove the unpleasant im- 
pression his face has fixed upon my mind. He has not our welfare 
at heart, depend iipon it.” 

“ He surely must take a deep interest in Winnie’s case. Being 
convinced of this, what more can we ask ? His abilities have never 
been questioned. A few weeks will set Winnie right, it isvonly 
want of energy or vitality. You are needlessly alarmed, Ruth. 
When she is able we will go away. AVe ’’ she stopped, as Ber- 

enice passed through the room. I replied: 

‘‘ Going hence will, for a while, free us fi-om her presence. I wel- 
come any project which will effect that end.” 

Mrs. Gault’s face flushed at my remark. 

“ The only point in which you are not the true Christian, is where 
Berenice is concerned.” 


BERENICE. 


()() 


“ How can I be, when she is near me ? Her presence brings up 
old wrongs — the deep insults, the cruel words — I can not forget. ’’ 

Leave me not in this agony of suspense. Wliat am I to fear ? 
What am I to hope! You evade an answer! Tell ine, for 
mercy’s sake! Is Winnie very ill 

^‘fc>he is very ill, madam, answered Hr. Moore. 

^Wou don’t surely mean that she will not live ?” 

‘‘Whde there is "life there is hope. Her chances of recovery 
are very small, but many live with no greater ones.’’ 

WHiite as marble, she sat staring at vacancy, then with sudden 
energy she arose, looked at Dr. Moore sternly, saying : 

^‘You told me yesterday, when I wanted a consultation with 
our old and reliable physician. Dr. Wyatt, she was not in any dan- 
ger. Why did you do so f A day and a night have been lost thus ! 
Ruth told me this. How trusting and how deceived I have been !’’ 

‘Aladam, your grief scarcely justifies such cruel words. Un- 
der such extenuations I forgive them. The symptoms up to last 
night were favorable. She was better yesterday.” 

“Forgive me, doctor. I spoke unkindly, thoughtlessly; 1 
know not what I say.” 

She turned to me, “Ruth, let Isaac go to the city immediately for 
Dr. Wyatt. Send him in an instant. You have no objections, 
doctor f ’ 

“Not in the least. I would prefer having his opinion.” 

The door closed upon his retreating figure. When walls, or 
closed doors, were between him and me I felt more at ease. For 
some days previous I had felt sure that AVinnie was dangerously 
ill. The realization came to her mother so late. She would walk 
the floor rapidly, then as suddenly seat herself beside the bed, 
look into the wasted face and moan, a low moan, so sad, so sig- 
nificant, but no tears came. She was sensitive to the slightest 
noise. If any one came into the room ever so cautious in step 
and voice, she begged them to be still, with a face more agonized 
than the sufferer's who lay upon the bed. 

Mrs. Gault listened in agony for Dr. Wyatt’s words. I waited 
for his looks. Certainly they did not increase my alarm for Win- 
nefred. Questions are often asked merely to draw our minds 
from one of life or death which we are about to ask of them. 

“How does she rest?” 

“She rests too well.” 

“As I see her now ?’’ he asked. 

“ Yes.” 

“ Does she take nourishment ?’’ 

“ Very little.” 


BERENICE. 


()7 

‘‘In liquid form, 1 suppose 

Here Mrs. Gault asked straightforward : “Dr. Wyatt, how do 
you find my child?” 

“Very quiet, very easy; not in any pain; her pulse is low ; 
she is very weak.'^ 

A hopeless look came into his face. Mrs. Gaidt saw it. 

“Dr. Wyatt,” said she, “ you think her very ill? Let me know 
the worst. You need not fear; I am quite prepared.” 

She thought she was prepared. 

“ She is ceidainly very ill. I can decide better as to her condition 
when I see her again in the morning.” 

“ Oh, do come early. If I had only sent for j'ou a week ago she 
might have been saved.” 

I left the room unnoticed to intercept his departure. I thought 
he tried to evade me. I called him as he was closing the door. 

“Doctor, don’t hesitate to tell me the worst. How is Winne- 
fi*ed?” 

“ I tried to avoid seeing you. I had no hope to give you. With 
all your care and love, she wdl surely die.” 

“How long can she hve? I can bear anything, now.” I leaned 
against the wall for support as I said it. Death could be no worse 
than the anticipation of it at this moment. 

“ My child, she is really dying now. Her case is a strange one. 
Dr. Moore, of course, has managed it properly. Many things might 
have been done, but it is too late, now; there is no vital poiver.’^ 

I hid the great soitow of my soul as well as I could, and hurried 
back to the room. Mrs. Gault was leaning over the bed, peering 
mth eager eyes, into Winnie’s face. 

“Ruth,” said she, “I did not like Dr. Wyatt’s manner; he did not 
answer my questions. What do you think? Be truthful! You 
never deceived me. Don’t do it now.’’ 

Her voice was so unnatural that I dared not venture to speak the 
whole truth. 

“ She is very ill, I know; but then she is not in any pain, which is 
a comfort.” 

“Comfort! What a strange word for you, Ruth. You know that 
if she had pain it would be better. This repose means death. Y"ou 
surely don’t think it a comfoit that she should die ?” 

Her answer wounded me. 

“Oh, no, no, no ! Not I. I would not wash her to die. I, of all 
others. How could you say that?” 

She did notice the appeal, but talked on. 

“He didn’t prescribe anything. I believe they all think that be- 
(*ause she is afflicted she had better die. I’ll have some one else to- 
moiTow. Yes, more than one. Dr. ^loore and Dr. Wyatt will let her 


G8 


BEEENICE. 


sleep herself to death. They don’t rouse her. Dr. Moore got her 
into this stupor and they both keep her in it. What do you think V 
Waken her! waken her, Kuth! Do! do! for God’s sake ! She will 
answer you.’^ 

“ Winnie ! Winnie! ” I laid my hand upon her brow, I pressed my 
bps to hers. The golden locks moved to the passing breeze. This 
was the only sign of life. We called her no more. We could not 
mistake the look that comes but once to aU. The grief of Mrs. Gault 
was ominous of ill. Not a tear, not a sob from the overcharged 
heart. 

“ Best, Eutli; leave me to solitude and my Maker.’’ 

Berenice, as plainly as eyes can interrogate one, asked, “ What 
keeps you at Mount Marah ? Your work is done wdth the Aubreys ? ” 
Then I had to combat with the narrow’ view’s of my own mind, esti- 
mating w hat I lost by remaining. “ Your own existence will be a 
sui^ine and unprofitable one by striving against the fate w’hich is 
wnfitten for another.” Mrs. Gault had already fallen into the dreaded 
torpor. My efibrts to interest her ended wdth that weary, imploring 
look, asking for “ rest.” “ You are resting too much — too long,’’ 
said I, assuming a tone of reproach. You forget me, by abandoning 
life. Your protection is witlilield from me. Dr. Moore hates me. 
His wife w’ould anniliilate me with her eyes, if her sarcasm did not 
succeed in doing so. Books and music can not entirely satisfy my 
heart.” (An untruth; the purpose for wdiich I uttered it is my only 
justification.) The right chord had been sw’ept. I had accused her 
of selfish grief. After a moment’s pause she replied, “ From this 
moment I w^ill arouse myself. I am learning w’hat I was wdien Eiic 
showed me that I w’as w’ronging you.” 

“ Berenice expects me to leave you, thinking that I am now of no 
service.’’ 

She started, safyng, “ You w’ill not leave me, Ruth ? Oh, do not ! I 
am lost if you leave me ?” 

Her tears touched my heart. I replied, “ If I can do any good by 
being with you, I shall remain. Determine on your part to find inter- 
ests in life, w’hich all God-serving women have. You are rich; you 
could do so much good.’’ 

To my astonishment her mind sought its interest in another piu*- 
suit instead of charity — pleasure was the aim. Society, frivolity 
— I was compelled to paidicipate. For me she had di-agged herself 
unw’illinglv from the solitude necessary to her nature. The rebuffs, 
or remarks my appearance might call forth, were now but minor 
matters; annoyances are forgotten wdien sorrows come. I listened 
with stoical indifference to remarks which w^ere intended for my ear, 
when some one asking wdio I w^as, received the reply: 

“ An asylum girl, who nursed the idiot child.” 


BERENICE. 


09 


Berenice, with no attempt at i^otto voce, remarked that 1 had un- 
paralleled audacity, and played my part well upon a weak, soitoav- 
8tricken woman. There Avas a deep, a mortal sting in her words; 
but trials of magnitude engrossed me so deeply that 1 took no no- 
tice of lesser ones. A brave girl dared to defend me. A generosity 
so unusual to worldly or fashionable AA’-omen, surprised me. I hs- 
tened with beating and thankful heart to hear her ask : 

“ Why should not Ruth Ward be received in society — the much- 
taXked-oi creme de Ja creme ? Nature has fitted her for it. She Avas 
obscure and unknoAvn; that takes aAvay nothing essential to her so- 
cial recognition. Her voice ought to be her passport, if nothing 
else. Oh, I AAush I were an emperor, or a prince, I would Avin her, 
take her to my castle in Spain, and make her the envied of ^dl who 
could find it in their hearts to envy her.” 

“ If you were a noble, you w ould be proud as nobles are.” 

“ Noble ?” inteiTupted the listener, with a shght sneer. “ Her 
care of an imbecile child, devoting every moment of her life to it 
— w^as that not noble ?” 

“ And noAV, you may add in the catalogue of virtues, the case of 
the scarce less foolish mother.” 

‘‘ How can you talk so cruelly about the poor broken-hearted 
mother ?” 

“ Is she not foolish in forcing Ruth upon us because she has 
served her*? And, besides, my idea is no neAv one. You know 
Avhat they say of her V’ 

“ No, not I.’' 

“ She is really non compos mentis. She is going crazj', actually 
crazy.” 

‘‘Lord ! You terrify me^” said a little flee Amice, that bad not 
been heard before. “ We ought not to have come here. What if 
she took a mad freak at one of the reunions ?” 

“ A relief; decidedly a change for the better; the reunions are 
dull enough. If it were not for Mrs. Moore they would be intol- 
erable! All in mourning — nobody talks — nobody laughs — no- 
body sings.” 

“ You will except Ruth % She obliges us when we ask her.” 

“So she does, but she sings old solemn things that make one 
dream of ghosts and graveyards.” 

“Exquisitely dressed Mrs. Moore! she is coming. She has 
consideration for the feelings of guests.” 

“It is my i^rivate opinion that her black garb is a libel on 
grief. What a difference in the expression of her face and Ruth^s.” 

“ Ruth is always on the tapis. I looped I had given to the con- 
Amrsation a radical change.” 

“ By introducing to it a lady who half mourns.” 


70 


BERENICE. 


“ Grace, there is your brother talking earnestly to your 
How do you like it f’ 

Exceedingly/^ 

How would you feel if, while in this vaunting spirit, you re- 
ceived a shock of ^imemlliance about to take place f’ 

‘‘With Miss Ward? I would not consider it so. Talent, to 
me, has social rights above all other claims. Seriously, J am a 
devotee to one altar.’’ 

“The idea of grafting upon the old family tree an unknown 
scion ! You should be proud of your lineage.” 

“That is why 1 would approve of this comely bough in the 
patriarchal oak. Beauty and Genius with Grandeur, which is 
at best unsatisfactory and drear, walk with the Beautiful. 
Grosser things become to them, by passing through the Divine 
tire, the pure alembic.” 

“ A few lines of rhyme, scribbled olf for a Sunday paper, do 
not make me a genius, nor secure for me, with an 3 ’ right, the name 
of poet.” 

“ Poetess, you mean,” said the fice voice. 

“ The idea of giving sex to Inspiration !” some oneexclaims in 
a low tone. “ One might as well say there was masculine and 
femenine poetry. Neither standard belongs peculiarly to sex. 
Men write the thin gruel verses, which we are bored with, as 
often as we do. Women write grandly, sublimely, too. J could 
cite a number of lines, yea thousands of them, if I had the time, 
the voice, and knew the poetry, equaling the ^Ancient Mariner,’ 
‘TheHiaven,’ or the ‘ Vision of Judgment,’ written by women.’’ 

“Here come the crows! Oh, those hateful black dresses I 
What brings them in this corner where we are trying to be merry '? 
Evidently it is not for enjoyment they mingle with us, for they 
do not try to rally from their gloom.” 

“ 'fhey cannot,” answered a thoughtful-browed lady. “ Death 
is recent here.” 

“Entertaining people under such circumstances is absurd. 
Why do they ask us here? Why do we come? Oh, it’s all 
through that Ruth. She wants to let us see that she can be one 
of us even for a little while. Us? (ah! here my fair champion 
quite flurried, has arisen), and pray who are we ? What com- 
poses this and other social gatherings ? Except a very few we 
are the decendants of merchants, grocers and small shop-keepers \ 
of artisans, tailors, tinkers ! We dare not scorn the tillers of the 
soil nor the toilers of the sea, for we may in the dim distance (in 
eras of which, thank God, exist no family archives) have been 
in origin low as they. We talk of caste, ancestry and blood, and 
write out a ‘black code’ for unknown aspirants, drawing a line 


BERENICE. 


71 


between us and them ; it is certainly stepping on eggs. Let us 
step daintily.” 

Through a few friends the tide was turning in my favor, had I 
been more genial or more self-interested, the select and fastidious 
would, in spite of my opponents, have taken me in the ring and, 
as the play goes, ‘‘kissed me as I entered in,” but being absorbed 
in other thoughts 1 was “ ungracious,” “ presuming,” they called 
it. This unresponding manner, together with the induence ot 
Berenice, comxdeted the decree of my banishment. The little 
sharp voice pronounced my conduct unpardonable. 

“I am only surprised that she ever entered the parlors as an 
equal.” 

“ Cleaning them ought to have been considered a pri\dlege.” 
Orace would listen no longer. 

“A shameful le mark, Anna. Does she look like a servant? Is 
there one in this room more refined V” 

“ No matter. She shoidd keej) her jdace. She recognizes us as if 
it were a condescension.” 

If our grandams had ke^^t their jdaces, where would some of us 
have been ? Among the dregs, ])erhaps. Everybody tries to rise. 
Even the scum gets to the to}) at last.” 

“Do let’s talk of sometliing else. Drop ‘ The Ward ’ ” 

“ Be generous enough, in conclusion, to say that Ruth Ward is 
not endeavoiing to engraft herself in any pleasant or comfoi-table or 
honored tree. On the contrary, she rejjels the gentlemen.” 

“ She bides her time, waiting till some big fish skimmers around 
the net.” * 

“ With silver and gold scales, hey ?” 

“ That’s the idea ! You Avill see her with it on the hook.” 

“ One can not patronize Ruth Ward. She is among us, with a 
heart and its interests far off.’’ 

Society in a few months had tired out both Mrs. Gault and myself. 
My task in it was to be amused and interested. I tried to aj^pear 
so, but very soon I was accused by Mrs. Gault of inconsistency. 

“And why,” asked I, “ do you think me inconsistent?” 

“ Wliy ? Simply that you urged me to af)pear before a lot of j)eo- 
jde, and to mingle with them ; they who care not for me. For your 
sake you said it -was. You were supposed to be lonely in the soli- 
tude welcome to me. The most hstless, miserable in the crowds 
that gather here is Ruth ! Stand convicted for the deception. % The 
motive w^as to cRown my trouble in a whiil of discord, fashion. 
As long as I thought it was for you I was content to suffer; but it is 
not. If you were a marble woman, you could not have been more 
impassive than you were and are at aU times. You need not con- 
tinue to cheat yourself into the behef that I am benefited by listen- 


72 


BERENICE. 


ing to the senseless chattering and mean malice of the crowd, for I 
am not. And now, in God’s sweet name, give me quiet, rest.’’ 

I knew that were she allowed to remain in solitude, brooding upon 
her son’ows, she w’ould become wRat they desired her to be. As to 
her predisposition to the fearful malady, I had learned nothing. Of 
no one had I dared to ask the history of the family, ■which was, to 
aU appearance, mysteriously comiected with my own. I waited, 
hoping tor the day, for a time wEen it would, without my instiga- 
tion, be made clear. Mrs. Gault was not in a condition to be ques- 
tioned upon a subject which was evidently a painful one. I would 
not desire to have Berenice breathe a w^ord of any one, living or 
dead, that belonged to me. There seemed onl}' one possibility of 
my ever hearing it and that was from Mr. Eric. 

The climax of her disease was fast approaching. I saw' the signs 
in horror and dismay. People began to regard her with searching 
glances, that could not be misinterpreted; looking into her eyes, 
w'atching her w'ays, to find the truth of the rumor. Dr. 'Wyatt’s 
opinion had once reassured and comforted me. He had changed, if 
not absolutely in opinion, he had done so in the freedom of express- 
ing it. 

“But, Doctor, I want your opinion, unbiased by anything 3'ou may 
have heard of Mrs. Gault. You gave it freely once.’’ 

“ That was before I was in the family practice superseded by 
another, or, rather, before I knew that I w'as.” 

“You are willing to allow her to be sacrificed? Y’^ou, who have 
practiced in the family so long, wRo ought to take a deep interest in 
in her ease, the interest, which I fear, for some cause, you do not 
feel.” 

He smiled, or tried to smile, at my reproach, and answ'ered me 
impressively : 

“ Unless I were summoned by Dr. Moore, or by some relative of 
the lady in consultation, I could not advise. You are intelligent 
enough to understand why it is impracticable. I can not force my 
opinion upon the family. You mistake, too, as to the question of 
interest in Mrs. Gault's case. In no instance in my practice have I 
been more deeply anxious, yet I am pow'erless to act.’’ 

“ Do you believe ?”-— I ask this confidentially of you, as a fiiend of 
Mrs. Gault — “ do you beheve her mind to be imj^aired ?” 

“ I have had no late opportunities of observation. She was, under 
peculiar circumstances years ago, temporarily unconscious of any- 
thing in life.” 

“ Persons w'ho w'ant to consider her mad led me to believe that 
others of the family, generations ago, on the maternal side, w'ere 
rictims of insanity.’’ 

“ I never heard of it. Her children died of diseases peculiar to 


BERENICE. 


73 


nervous and delicate organizations. They Avore intellij^ent. As to 
the last, her pitiable condition resulted from accident. Her brain- 
development Avas fine.” 

“ AVhat accident AA^as there? I never knew of one.” 

“ The mother received the shock and transmitted its effects to her 
offspring, xis to what you propose, none but a relative of the fam- 
ily, or the attending plwsician, could reque.st my seiwices with any 
degree of civihty, to Dr. Moore. Perhaps some friend Avould assume 
the responsibility of recommending a consultation.” 

“ I suggested to Berenice the propriety of calling in Dr. Wyatt. A 
stranger Avould be the better judge of her condition, she thought. 
The result was a confirmation of previous opinions and conclusions. 
The only missing link that Berenice Avould have (taught up was the 
time of Ml'S. Gault’s ceasing to be entirely responsible tor her acts. 
Tliis Avas undefined and undefinable.” 


CHAPTER X. 


EXTRACTS FROM RUTHS JOURNAL. 

Apprehensions, surmises, gloomy forebodings filled my mind. I 
eould not lose for a moment the conviction that the being insepar- 
able from my life might at any hour, at home, in the solemn stillness 
of night, or abroad, with strange eyes gazing in wonder, go mad. 
Whatever phase her freaks of fantasy might assume, surely they 
would be far from the boundaries of my responsible and real exist- 
ence. My actions were unnatui^al and constrained; watching for 
danger while trying to appear unconscious of its ap2:)roach. She 
had indeed noticed my eager and earnest glances. 

“ You are,” said she, “ looking into my soul. What do you exj^ect 
to know' of me ? Do you not yet understand me ? ” At that moment 
I was questioning myself, “ Am I now the keeper of a mad w'oman 
Even my dreams held me bound to the fearful bondage. I would 
start ujj from troubled slumbers, gazing wildly around to see if she 
were with me and not mad. For months I endured in silence the ex- 
pectant state, then my heart desj^aired. I fought bravely against it, 
for I knew that inaction followed desjjair. I knew that it behooved me 
to arouse every energy if I w'ould serve her. Against my inchna- 
tions and adverse to my plans for my owm future, I gave my time to 
her. She, Avho had been a recluse, frittered aw^ay on visitors or in 
riding, the best hours of the day. The most frequented places were 
chosen. Interminable, tiresome w alks ours were to me, as I had 
neither aim nor interest in them. Nor had she, still we must go on, 
on, on. All at once, a sudden dread of some ill to AVinnie took pos- 
session of her mind. She w'ould say to me often, “Be watchful; we 
are in danger. Some evil hangs over mj^ child. Prescience is the 
index of fate; if w^e could only see the hand. Hideous thoughts 
oppress me. I know they are to warn us. We w'ill go out. In the 
world w'e may forget it. There is nothing like action and change of 
scene to make us see beyond the hour.” 

In the depth of my 2)erplexities and sorrow I w'as compelled 
to trammel my anxious thoughts with trivial matters. She had 
decided to have family i)ortraits. We visited without delay the 
studio of a young artist who had attained, within a short time, 
considerable celebrity. We were surprised to find Berenice look- 


BEllENJCE. 


ing at us, natural as life, troin the easel. While examining other 
portraits, we overheard a piquant conversation, reflecting severe- 
ly upon the “dark and dangerous beauty of Mount Marah."’ A 
party of gentlemen had entered the studio without noticing our 
proximity, or otherwise, not suppOvsing we could overhear them. 
They paused before the picture of Berenice upon the easel. 

‘^The face of an Italian saint,” exclaimed the first. 

Italian saint! Where, in the name of Heaven, do they keep 
themselves ? In Italy, during my sojourn, 1 found many of the 
prettiest sinners, but I swear not one saint.’’ 

‘‘Goodness is entirely independent of localities,’’ was the per- 
tinent reply. “ We must seek earth-angels in their own haunts, 
and not expect them to come to ours.” 

“The noblest and purest of womankind are to be found in 
Italy,” retorted he who had first commented upon the picture. 

His companion was in a jovial mood. 

. “ I’ve trodden upon your corns, hey ! Next trip across the 
water comes back to us with you some lady who now walks the 
Bridge of Sighs, enveloped (all but the eyes) in a black mantilla, 
with fan in hand, ready for adventure or marriage, as all women 
are, even the best of womankind. How nearly the Magdalens, 
Madonnas and Cecilias of the churches and prayer-books resem- 
ble each other. One copy seems to serve for any one in the cal- 
ender. When women are saintly they are simpering. The ex- 
pression pleases the votary, because divinity and devotee are gen- 
erally alike. A woman is far handsomer witli a touch of the 
devil in her face.” 

“ You deserve one of the kind to deal with the rest of your 
life for expressing the opinion. Ho quibble at the angel- 
look in her eyes, and wish them more earthy V 

“Not I. I don’t think it a good face.” AVho would impose up- 
on our credulity by giving us this for a saint ?” Is it a saintt 
I was about to remark this must be the woman of Andernack, 
who, out of love for her liusband, longed for him and ate him.” 

“ A Judith, but not a camiibal. No, no; we could reasonably ex- 
])cct the head of Holofernes in the clutch of those white hands.” 

“ Go on ! Get her a counterpart. Suppose we call her Gulnare, 
^vith her poignard, reeking in the Seyd’s blood, her white lips justi- 
fying her deed.” 

“ And when he tires of myself and me 
There lies the sack and yonder rolls the sea.” 

“ Semiramis, after giving her sceptre to Ninyas — ” 

“ Or Tomyres ?” 


76 


BERENICE. 


Go not so far back — Berenice, Mrs. Gault’s step-daughter. A 
regular flirt.” 

“ You know her 

“ Well, yes, I do. I and many others went through the furnace. 
We came out, not as Shadrack, Meshack add Abednego. We were 
decidedly singed. But the picture is flattered. Nine or ten years 
ago it would have been true enough.” 

“ Grapes hung too high, eh V” 

“ High ! The deuce ! For the wealth of India I would not 
marry her.” 

One, blase on the subject of beauty and the sex, remarked that 
’twas “ a deal of nonsense about a picture of a woman.’’ 

“ Their criticism is severe, but the subject merits it,” said Mrs. 
Gault, after they had gone. At this moment the ariist returned. 
He called our attention to his work upon the easel. Her beauty 
was spmtualized by him. Yet it must have held, to a certain de- 
gree, to strangers more than to us, her characteristics, as no one 
ever came to Berenice to say, “What a good face.” 

He listened eagerly as our admiration elicited praises of his work 
.•ind the beauty of the original. As the door of the studio closed 
after us Mrs. Gault remarked: 

“ There is another madman.” (On this malady I was crazed. ) 

“Why do you consider him so, ” asked I, shuddering. 

“He is perfectly infatuated with Berenice.’’ 

“ I never suspected it, but then I have no great penetration.” 

“ I grow \vdse,” said she, smiling. “I can read thoughts now bet- 
ter than ever.” 

“Do we not always become wiser with years?” 

“ I think we should,” she replied. "VYe are looking tlmough 
stained glasses, both in youth and age. Couleur de rose in youth, pur- 
ple and clouded in age. We never see clearly until our immorfal 
vision is given to us.” 

“ The power penetrative and discerning comes late to you, be- 
cause you have been excluded from the w^orld for years, and, there- 
fore, from world-knowledge.” 

“ I should never have left my solitude but for you. It had become 
so natural to me.’’ 

For me ! How mistaken she had been. 

“Your happiness is now my sole aim; 3^0111* {ulvancement, the 
study of my life. 

Compelled to approve her plans, I said: 

“We wiU not let our lives slip aTwav from us without our here and 
there appropriating a jewel to ourselves from the full strand.’’ 

“Pleasant hours! Oh, 3^es, these are the priceless pearls;” so I 
yielded to her whim. I gave up my life to her, or i-ather its present. 


BEKENICE. 


77 


golden time. Often I felt rebellious at my aimless, wasted existence. 
The mystery surrounding my bii’th intruded itself upon me. Either 
in case of death or loss of mind, all knowledge would be lost to me, 
yet I dreaded to bring to the enfeebled mind one painful recollec- 
tion, one event which had helped to form the link between her life 
and mine. During indications of continued improvement in her 
health and spirits, I determined to ask of her my history, thinking 
I would persist, against all remonstrance. What old and horrid 
memory, what unfortunate train of events, my presence, even in 
my childhood, brought before her, out from the ashes of the past! 
I would be positive, no more to be silenced by frivolous excuses. 
Why, if a spider cross her path, I reasoned, when she attemj^ts to 
tell the story, she swoons away, and there it ends. She travels about 
all day and can look upon ghastly sights — of beggars, the maimed 
and besotted — that would sicken my soul. She has nerves for these, 
yet she keeps well the secret which is slipping a^way into the silent 
sea of oblivion ! What did Eric Ethel mean when he told Berenice 
of the obligations the family were under to Buth Ward ? What did 
Mrs. Gault mean when she said, “ Our lives and miseries are inter- 
woven.’^ In what way? How long have they been so? Again I 
was I to be thwarted in my purpose. Mrs. Gault became exceed- 
ingl}' ill. I could not excite her. Nothing in the lapse of weeks oc- 
curred to indicate the existence of the disease I dreaded. I told 
Berenice of the hope it gave me. 

“From the metamorjdiosis of her character you erroneously draw a 
favorable inference. She has changed from a cpiiet courtly matron, 
afraid of contact Avith the world, to one who, participating in its frl- 
vohties, finds no rest in quietude. NeA'er since her widowhood, nor 
indeed long before it, has she been seen in pubhc. 

“ By my solicitation she leads an active life. It Avas the only hope 
for her,” I replied. 

“ The result aaIU be seen too soon. You give the fact of her mal- 
ady publicity. EA^ery one Avonders at her odd Avays. You have 
taken a great responsibility on yourself.” 

High authority gives sanction to what I hav^e done. One of 
the most eminent physicians of the city came here in the guise 
of friendship to her to adAuse me. I follow his advice strictly. 
He has had the decided advantage of her being, during his 
visits, unaware of his investigations. He finds no indications of 
mental ailment. Her temperament is not predisposed to insani- 
ty. He tells me, too, that the transmission of the disease can be 
traced oftenest to the paternal line. Her father died at a good 
old age in sound mental state. Furthermore, I Lave been great- 
ly encouraged by reading. I have made the subject a close study. 
Let me give you the benefit of a feAv remarks I gleaned from the 


78 


BERENICE. 


best authorities. They cannot weary you if you have her wel- 
fare at heart. The disease itself is not inherited so often as the 
temperament is predisposed to the disease. Circumstances 
acting upon this abnormal condition unfavorably, produce eflects 
which might under better auspices be warded otf. Long con- 
tinued grief, (in reality nothing more than the concentration of 
the mind upon one theme) would destroy the intellect, where 
there is a predisposition to fatal termination. A solitary life is 
one that tends to centralize and perpetuate one thought. From 
these premises, and the authority 1 named just now, opin- 
ions growing out of scientific research, I knew that Mrs. Gault 
should go out into the world, to become interested in something, 
even in its follies. Furthermore, I quote from Millengen, the 
idea struck me forcibly, in insanity we have no guide to direct 
our investigations. Where does Dr. Moore get his proofs in her 
case'? They should be glaring to see them. It does not follow 
that if twenty members of a family became mad that the twen- 
ty-first must do so. Families differ so widely in constitution and 
temperament. Its several members exhibit as many different 
phases as there are heads to number. Moral depravity is not al- 
ways hereditary, neither is physical degeneracy. And then to 
refute a part of your theory and Dr. Moore’s as to the disease^ 
being an heir-loom, Winnefred did not inherit her condition. 
At the graves of her dead Mrs. Gault told me otherwise. How 
do you account for the discrei)ancy in your statement and heFs? 
She was highl}^ excited, but she held the reins of her chafing 
spirit with a master-hand. Smiling at my earnestness, never be- 
traying that she, too, was earnest ; with a voice not above its 
usual tone, she answered : 

Dr. Moore has observed her dosely; we may rely upon him. ’ 

“No one is infaUible.” My pertinacity at last provoked her to 
retold, “ You have no right to betray our family secrets by calling 
other advisers.” 

“ I am a friend in whom she trusts. I betray no secrets — it is no 
secret. I know it to be a subject often agitated and commented 
upon.” 

“ You assume in this family a power beyond what is given you, 
forgetting who you were before you entered it.” 

“ A poor, a very poor child with a true heart, I was; a true one is 
ever a grateful one. I owe the lady of Mount Marah much. Only 
in performing my duty unwaveiingly do I hope to cancel, in a 
measure, my debt to her.”- 

“ Still I maintain that you presume too much upon your tempo- 
rary power in our house. It is not to your interest to believe that 
she who pets and pampers and makes a fool of you, wiU one day be 


BERENICE. 


71 > 


a thing to avoid and tremble at; or otherwise a poor, drivelling, quiet 
fool that 3'ou will gladly put from your sight first, and afterwards 
from your memory. In the interim do not forget yoiir place. Not- 
withstanding your role as adopted daughter, you are, and will ever 
be, but Ruth Ward; — with all your beauty and aspirations and sing- 
ing, the pauper child of an asylum. The word adopted has no 
meaning when uttered by one in her state of mind.’’ 

“ What does^it matter to you, Berenice ? How does it affect you, 
her adoption of me, j^resuming it to be really her intention ?” 

“ It affects me in no possible manner. I am her step-daughter, 
the lineal and legal heir to her possessions. No power can take 
them from me.” 

“ Did any one dispute your right, or doubt it ? Not I. Berenice, 
\ ou need not glare those wicked eyes at me allusively. My soul is too 
great to stoop to such considerings. This is the contingency of m}'- 
adoption which you di’ead. I recollect you said in the library at 
Mount Marah that I came to w'ork you ill. Is this the ill ? A few 
arpents of land, a little stone and moidar, a magnitude to you of this 
world’s goods, that has made you so distrustful ? This is the cause 
of your hate and persecution. Why, I have lain night after night 
in my childhood, thinking it over, puzzling myself to find out the 
cause of your cruelty. I tell you solemnly I have liigher aims than 
to gain the wealth to which I have no right. How impending fate 
lias precluded the possibility of the pursuit I ardently sigh for; but 
I bide my time. In deepest sincerity I say, nay, I swear that I am 
here but in the fulfiUnient of a promise made to Mrs. Gault the night 
I came. Winnefred is bound closely to my heart by her depend- 
ence. I can not leave her, and I am entirely essential to Mrs. Gault. 
In the sjiirit of truth I say this, forgetting all bitterness, forgiving 
you, for I am sure you have been deceived by yourself.” 

‘‘ Well, w'ell ! I mil believe as you wish. You are the veriest 
saint that ever awaited death for the glory of canonization. Let 
me tell you sometliing now, to convince you of the futility of your 
efforts, provided you %vere mercenary, and had not such a noble dis- 
regard of wealth. If she were to Avrite or cause to be written a 
dozen wills, they Avould be null and void. See your goodness, dis- 
interestedness, sagacity, far-sightedness and officiousness in getting 
advice, legal or medic^, Avill be of no aA'ail.’’ 

“ You will not trust me. You- asked me for my friendship some 
time ago, and now, Avhen I can not agree with you upon the matter 
of a mental ailment, you declare open war again. So let it be. Noav 
depend upon my words. I will do all I can to thwart your plans, 
for you have planned to secure her ruin. You pretend to see in her 
what you desire to see ; but the lady of Mount Marah shall not go 
to a madhouse. One true friend will save her.” 


80 


BERENICE. 


One mornino- at the breakfast table, not long after this conversa- 
tion, Dr. Moore was present. I took the morning paj^er to look 
over the arrivals. I was already hoping for Mr. Ethel’s return. 1 
uttered an exclamation of hoiTor. M}" heart was sorely troubled. 
I laid the paper down, not able to say a word of what I had seen in 
its columns. Some one asked what terrible event I had read of to 
make me so white and ghasth". Before I could reply, Berenice took 
up the paper. The explanation she gave, quite unconcernedly, after 
a momentary start, was : 

“ Julian shot himself last night in his studio.” 

Mrs. Gault sat pale and trembling, with questioning looks at me. 

Dr. Moore, who knew' but little of poor Julian, not enough to 
feel greatly concerned about him, upon reading of his death, re- 
marked; 

“A love affair. A letter written to a lady of this city, found uj^oii 
the body, will probably throw light upon it. The lady it implicates 
will keep the contents to herself.” 

Berenice was evidently trying to act as if Julian were an every- 
day acquantance. 

Dr. Moore ate with his usual appetite, saying between times, 
“sad affair,’’ “ foolish bgy,’’ ending his comments by wondering who 
the lady was. 

“ You should prej^are to receive the letter,” said Mrs. Gault, fix- 
ing her eyes angrily vipon Berenice. “Poor Julian! you have no re- 
gret for him V” 

“ None in the world. Any who tire of life ought to end it. There 
isn’t a reason, not even a psychological one, Avhy they shouldn’t.” 

“ You are the worst woman I ever knew.'’ 

“Thank you, for your opinion; though a mad woman’s thoughts 
are of little consequence.” 

Dr. Moore walked out to think over the conversation. Berenice 
followed, to vindicate herself to him, I suppose. I took time to say 
to Mrs. Gault: 

“ Provoke her no farther, I beg of you.” 

“You fear her? My husband bade me fear her, and I do; but the 
fate of Julian inqn*essed me, grieved me, made me rash.” 

She appeared to be pondering over the effects of her rashness, 
but her thoughts reverted again to the suicide, as she exclaimed : 

“He was a mere youth, and had a mother.” 

“ The letter is for Berenice, you think ? ” 

“To whom else? Yes, yes; the letter is for Berenice.” 

“ Our portraits must have been almost his last work.” 

“ No 1 The face now on the easel is hers. 1 saw it there only yes- 
terday.” 

“ You are Berenice ? ” asked a miserable l.)eing, a woman ad- 


BERENICE. 


81 


vanced in years, haggard, wild with woe. “ Yes, you are Berenice. 
I have a love message for you.” 

Berenice replied collectedly, “ Madam, I do not know you.” 

I am your victim’s mother. To be sure, you are in utter igno- 
rance of the death of Juliam This letter will fully inform you. 
Take it. You wiU not ? Ah ! you dare not ! In death men speak 
truths, and the truth is your soul’s condemnation.’’ 

“ He had no cause to love me. I am, I have been for some time, 
the wife of anothei-. I told liim months ago to think of me no 
more.” 

“ Oh, woman ! woman ! You bade him months ago not to think of 
you ! Why have you led him to do so, when you knew that you were 
to destroy him?” 

“ I could not foresee this tragic end.” 

‘^Y"oii expect to shatter to earth in an instant what you have 
taken pains and time to create. Years were spent in accomplish- 
ing the end. There is a tear in your eye. What a cruel, mon- 
strous being you are. No regret, though you have sent a soul to 
its Maker. You have taken all from me, my darling; my hand- 
some boy. He was trusting as a child. To have loved a true, 
kind-hearted woman would have been his salvation, but he loved 
you, you demon ! May you live to see your son as mine.’’ 

Berenice arose with flushed face, saying very calmly, ‘H^urther 
conversation is unavailing. I regret his fate; but I can not re- 
store him. I am not superhuman.” 

‘‘And if you could, he would do the same thing, AYitch !” 

“Are 3’ou a lady ? If you are you surely forget the fact.” 

“ A lady I Y'ou are one, so they say. Are you a woman ? A 
woman, you know, is a gentle, merciful being. They are medi- 
ators, ministering angels. Bo not ask me if I am a l^y, but 
come with me and see Julian. Come, lady, come! He lies so 
sweetly, as if he were dreaming of you. The loving, earth-at- 
tainted smile will not deceive. He was not communing with 
angels. His face will not shock you. There is but one ugly, 
ominous spot. The smallest imaginable, for the greatness, or 
deadliness, of the work. One spot in the white, veined temple. 
I pushed the dark curls back and saw it. I pressed my lips 
where the sudden and supreme pain was ; where the cruel mis- 
sive entered and cleft its swift way to his poor brain. Y"ou did 
it,’’ said she, with a sudden change of manner. ‘‘You crazed my 
poor boy, lady ! fiend ! I could burn out the eyes that led him 
with their false light to devstriuuion.” 

Her excitement had ft larmed Berenice. She was walking back- 
ward to the door, keeping, fis ’twere, her foe at bay. I did not 
notice her ultimate retreat. I was too deeply interested in die 


82 


BERENICE. 


poor mother, who, after her violent manner, assumed a dreary, 
hopeless apathy, dreadful to contemplate. Arousing herself 
when I addressed her, she asked me, in a low voice, whether I 
had known Julian. 1 said I had fre(iuently been to the studio 
while he was painting our portraits. ?»Iy tears evinced my sor- 
row for his fate. 

‘‘You are Ruth Ward?’^ she asked. 

‘‘Yes. You have heard tim speak of me 

“ Often ! I wish he had loved you. You would not have sent 
him, as she, to my door this morning on a shutter. Would you 

“My dear, dear lady, bow I pity you. I wonder often how the 
heart can bear so much and not break.” 

“Hearts are elastic. Yon can pierce and distort them, and 
drag at them, but they never break. See! she has not even 
opened the letter. It lies on the table.” 

“Her fears will not allow her to do so j she feels conscience- 
stricken,” said I. 

“She has no conscience. My poor boy is not her first victim ; 
he has been her weakest one. He never could endure trouble. 
We never crossed him. Well! she spurns his letter as she did 
him ! I will break the seal. Shall not a mother know the 
last thoughts of her child 

“Do not read it! It is too hard a task. It will only add to 
yonr misery ! Let me take care of it until a little time has passed. 
Time does so much to mitigate sorrow." 

“No, no ! I came hither to hear her read his letter. If I leave 
it, its contents will be buried in silence. You wee{) for him ; read 
it for me. J want to get the sound of his words; it will seem 
that he spoke to me. You need not shrink from the task ; noth- 
ing can add to my wretchedness, as nothing can take from it." 

She sat with rigid muscles and eager eyes while I read to her 
the last thoughts of her son : 

“I had been saying since morning to this face upon the easel. 
Thou art my curse. This thing, the work of my hands, the ban- 
quet of my eyes, is to be the death of my soul ! It looks upon 
me and smiles at my mad woe ! What of that! ’Tis only a piece 
of canvas. Yet, so she looked to-day when 1 demeaned myself, 
as she said, like a ruffian. Then I tore from the easel, and tram- 
pled in the dust, the labor of love — the life-drops of my heart ! 
There was a talk of ‘pity.’ The woman who professed to love me, 
gives me her pity, and talks of my youth as being an obstacle. 
I have grown older since I knew you, my tempter ! I was gentle 
as a girl ; you have transformed me into a fiend. My poverty ! 
One of my pictures would have been a fortune some day, had you 
loved me. ‘The world is before you, fair and brilliant women 


BERENICE. 


88 


are at your command. They will have love to give you ; 1 have 
none. You have great genius. Your pictures are glorious, every 
one of them.’ Your face is in all. The sameness wearies my 
partrons. ‘This is but your first i)assion.^ Aye, and my last. 

“When 1 am old you will not have reached the hey-day of life. 
She who is destined to go down to^the grave with you, may not yet 
be born.^’ 

“Alone^ I go to my grave without one to regret me but my 
mother.’’ 

“Why, Julian, 1 will regret 3 ^ou. Think of it philosophically. 
No man [goes unscathed, free of love’s penalties. You are en- 
tirely unworldly. Another face would have been your ‘Circe’ had 
I not been near.” 

“You mean that another woman would have broken my heart 
and damned my soul.” 

“You will forget all this — ’tis but a boyish passion.’' 

“Yes, 1 will forget; mark it well, I will forget!’' 

“We parted, and I shall soon forget. Can I live to see Berenice 
the wife of another? No ; I died morally to-day when I tore the 
face from the easel, and defaced the beautiful lips and the silken 
hair, and marred the face that was in ray picture, in my dreams, 
in my life! I am dying! My mother! my mother! will she for- 
give me? Tell her I was too wretched to live. Tell her you led 
me to believe by a thousand acts that you loved me. Tell her 
that you mocked me with my weakness. Be just; extenuate my 
sin so far as you can, by truth, and know, oh woman, for whom 
I die, that 'twas no ‘boyish passion,’ mine for you.’' 


\ 




/ 


BOOK SECOND. 


-;o:- 


CHAPTER 1. 


EXTEACTS FEOM EUTh’s JOUENAL. 

“A soft answer turneth away wrath.” 

CIECE THE WANDEEEe’s EETUEN TO MOUNT MAEAH. 

In the sultry sunset of an August day he stood unannounced 
before us in the garden. Berenice lost her composure for a moment 
only. His voice recalled me to the realization of nn' betrayal of 
feeling. 

“ Little Ruth no longer/’ said he, taking my hand just as he did 
when I was little Ruth. 

“Have I grown so much?” asked 1, merely to acknowledge that 1 
had heard what he said. 

“Very much. I did not think you would be as tiill as yon are by 
an inch or Lvo.^’ 

“ Have I changed ? Surely not for th(‘ worse, if at all ?” asked 
Berenice, playfully. 

“Scarcely a day older; fair, too, as ever. Time is merciful to 
some of us.” 

“Time! Why, one would think me a grandmother to hear you.’^ 

“ Dangerous ground for me, you would say. It was an unwary 
step. You are not old. Forgive me intimating aught to the con- 
trary.” 

“You wear remarkably well. We might consider you the Gaston 
Phoebus of the centiuy.” 

“ What resemblance do you find in me to the old fop 

“ The best preserved man of the day at fifty. You speak slight- 
ingly of his advantages.” 

“ I, fifty ? Ruth, she wishes you to think me a staid old gen- 
tleman.” 

“ What do I care about Ruth’s thoughts of you. Not a feather’s 
weight.’’ With less show of temper she continued, “I meant no 
offense by comparing you to the man of eccentric tastes and habits, 


BEKENK^E. 


8 (> 

with his three hundred dogs, dear to him as his lady-loyes, fol- 
lowing him about, cringing to him, receiving his kicks and ciifts 
like true curs.” 

“ A novel turn-out, indeed ! I am, in your eyes, like this man.'’ 

“ I will look over Froissart for further information —something to 
be emulated?” 

“ Thank you, Mrs. Moore,” said he, bowing in a stift’ way, ^ 1 hav(‘ 
no further interest in the history of Gaston Plncbus, the hand- 
somest man of the day.” 

“ Call me Berenice, won’t you?’’ 

“ Your husband might object.’’ 

“ Not he. He likes my name too well to prefer hearmg his own.’’ 

“I rather lilce the name of Moore.” 

“ So would I if ’twere not for its associations. By the way, as we 
return to the house — answer me, if you please — -where have you 
been ? Why did you leave us so hastily ? Wherefore have you tar- 
ried so long ?” 

“ The questions must be answered singly. First, I was compelled 
to leave without consideration of the step. My desire to stay might 
J)ossibly overcome my resolution to go. Second, I can scarce teU 
where I have not been. At my leisure I wiU get up a schedule of 
my wanderings previous to my finding it profitable to remain in the 
south of Europe.’’ 

“ Oh, don't write your travels and adventures. Till then be silent 
in all things. They would be pleasant stories for the fireside.’’ 

“ We have had no letters from you, and I, more than Ruth, I 
think, have felt the loss,’’ said Mrs. Gault. 

jMore than Ruth. Not more than Ruth, thought I. 

“ I have written many times with no result. Conspirators have 
been at work against us,” he replied, half-playfuUy. 1 thought Bei*- 
enice had a deeper flush as he said it. 

Mrs. Gault retired, as usual, quite early. I found Berenice in the 
parlor in close conversation with her old lover. 1 was, in conse- 
(^uence thereof, utterly miserable. 

We met at breakfast. After it I was glad to escape. 1 hated now 
to meet his eyes. I feared he might read my soul. He detained 
me to ask why I had left liim to himself the evening before, so soon 
after his arrival. I answered as indifferently as I could: 

“ You were not alone in the parlor last evening. I stood at the 
door intending to enter, but you were talking to Berenice.’’ 

“ Yes, I was; but I would rather have talked to you, Ruth; a thou- 
sand times rather.” 

“ I didn’t know that. I thought I had better not give her the 
trouble I once gave her on your account.’’ 

In the days of her follies that was. She is now, it is to be sup- 


BERENICE. 


87 


posed, a staid and circumspect matron. If she were not, still I woidd 
await your coming and hope for it.” 

An embarrassing silence ensued. He interrupted it by asking 
me wdiether I doubted what he said. Dr. Moore’s approach saved 
me from answeiing. Very unceremoniously he led me into the par- 
lor. Berenice and her husband joined us. Her eyes were more 
beautiful than ever. His coming was the aw^akening of slumbering 
chords, thrilling once more to the master touch ! The glance which 
Eric at times cast upon her made me wretched. The subtle spell has 
returned, thought 1. He vill hate the one who robbed him of this 
brilliant queen. 

Dr. Moore, proud of his wife on canvas, as in life, proj^osed show- 
ing the portrait which had been taken of her during Mr. Ethel’s ab- 
sence. The sight of the pictures would elicit questions and bring 
revelations — unpleasant ones to heai-, Berenice knew — of Julian's 
destruction. 

“We will not trouble Mr. Ethel to-day with pictures of ourselves. 
He would prefer talking to us, I fancy,” said Berenice. 

No; he preferred to oblige Dr. Moore, and examine the pictures. 

“ A splendid, a jierfect likeness,” he remarked of Berenice. 

“ True as life,” responded her husband, warming with adinhation 
at his own appreciation of his wife’s beauty. 

“ Ah, here is Ruth ! How' natural ! How perfect ! ” 

A question (concerning the artist came now. Dr. Moore briefly 
related the soiTow’ful story. “ The cause of his rash deed, I imagine, 
was close application, toiling beyond his strength, as aU enthusiasts 
do,” said Eric. 

“Not altogether. He w'as in love, or fancied himself so, which 
is as bad. There being no reciprocity, he became mad, and in 
his frenzy ended the matter.” 

Berenice left the room while the Doctor was speaking. He and 
Mr. Ethel forthwith entered into an animated discussion as to a sui- 
cide’s responsibility for his God-defying antidote to God-given suf- 
ferings. And a second question: Could w^e overcome our affections 
or reverse our antipathies ? Giving an answer negatively, Mr. Ethel 
continued: “We cannot dehberate, in cases of great importance, 
requiring quick decision. The impetus of our passions sweeps us 
along, without a chance of struggling for our salvation.” He quoted 
Paley, but not to estabhsh his own theory. “ Impulses are generally 
correct, as man ever reasons himself into error.” I. listened, and in 
my incipient philosophy wondered wiiether Adam had reasoned 
himself into loving Eve, and out of it after she had tempted him ; 
whether the controlling j)ower had kept him from saying hard words, 
shifting from himself the blame, to throw it u2:)on her, even when 
together and in the. same degree they had sinned. Considering how’ 


88 


BERENICE. 


weak the tempter and how strong the tempted, I thought we should 
blame Adam more than we do, for our being lower than the angels. 
“ The mind is alternately attracted by Good and Evil, Duty and 
Passion,” quoted the Doctor. I listened eagerly for the reply: 

“ Poor humanity ! Before us lies a thousand branchings. Without 
a guide, how' hard to get the right path. Arbiters of our own des- 
tinies, the best of us have a difficult task to decide between duri' 
and inclination.” 

The discussion became dull to me. I arose to leave the room, but 
Mr. Ethel signified that he wished me to remain. Dr. Moore had 
disappeared; we were quite alone. Had I not believed that he 
loved Berenice, I might have endeavored to be entertaining. 1 
could not keep up the hackneyed strain of unmeaning sentences, 
usual in a conversation. He asked me to sing, saying that the echoes 
of my voice came to him when he was far away. Thej* had called 
him back. I sang, commencing dovd^tfnl of my power, fearing ho 
had over estimated it. My fingers often blundered upon the keys, 
but my voice kept its steady way on waves of melody. He listened 
awhile, then he accompanied me. 

“ Music j)asses from an art to a joassion, with its devotees. One 
would think we had often sang together,” said Eric. 

“ I find myself sadly deficient vriien I sing with any one,’’ an- 
swered I. 

“ A bird, ever soaring, ever restless, must reach the clouds at 
last.'^ 

“ I have not practiced lately. I have been absorbed in sad 
things.” 

• “ Winniffied’s death relieved you of a great charge? ” 

“ I cannot consider her death a relief.” 

“ You will, in time. One of Natmre’s laws — a wise one — rules out 
the continuance of vivid suffering for the dead. Despite our 
desires to wed ourselves to those be,yond the grave, the living have 
their rights. It is trring to serve t^vo masters — to give ourselves up 
to grief for the dead, and perform our duties in the meantime to the 
living. Forget; look forward. Your voice has not disappointed me. 
^ViU your nature do so ? Have you aims, or will you plod along, as 
commonplace people do ? Without flattery, you have beauty, your 
voice is incomparable — in one year you could be prepared to sing in 
public.” 

“ So soon ? Oh, mv ! So soon I should be able to ]>rave the 
battle ?” 

“ What a plaintive tone ! If I had told you that in a year you 
would lose all which made hfe supportable, it would not l>e sadder. 
I thought your eyes would flash in triumph, your answer be in sur- 
l)rise and exultation.’^ 


BERENICE. 


81 > 


“ If I were a prisoner, knowing that the sun was rising for me the 
last time, I could not feel more miserable than I do. I was not born 
for what you propose.” 

“ I hate to hear you say so. You must tiw to shape your life as I 
chart it out for you.” 

“ What would you have me to be, Ylr. Ethel V” 

“The idol of the world — flattered, beloved, adored; your name 
on every one’s bps; crowds following your footsteps to get only a 
look at your face ; songs to be sung in your pr&,ise ; your name known 
from zone to zone.’^ 

“ Your picture is pretty enough, but I would rather be the world 
to one than the worshipped of manj". Life should have one har- 
mony; one presence shoidd create it. I believe 1 would not care to 
interest the mind.” 

“ Mind and heart united are the soul.” 

“ Yet they are to me distinct. The mind of one beloved may place 
me among the highest, while his lieail makes me an outcast, an 
alien, low as the dust.” 

After I had allowed these words to escape me, we sat for some 
moments reflective and silent. I was thinking how I would love to 
have a quiet cry. This was one of the many times when “ our 
spirits dee23est stiiTed, their outward manifestations were hardest to 
detect.” What man ever guessed a woman’s thought aright, said I 
t/O myself, when, arousing from his reflections, he remarked : 

“You are dreaming. You are behind the footlights, looking out 
on a wilderness of faces, dazzled with the brilliancy and deafened 
Tvdth the encore.’' 

“ You mistake. I was saying to you, ‘ Mr. Ethel, you are the only 
man of tliscretion who would advise a young lady to appear in pub- 
lic, to seek what a true woman cares least for — fame; often taming 
down to mere notoriety. Would you suggest such a course of life 
to your sisters 

My voice was petulant and reproachful. 

“ Presuming them to be possessed of a particular talent, I 
would; but they should be certain of having sufficient to rise above 
mediocrity. Rest assured I have the most perfect reverence for your 
self-sacrificing, womanly nature.” 

(Reverence ! I had rather he had told me he despised me.) 1 
(?ould not conceal my dissatisfaction. I replied in a clear and de- 
<iided tone of voice : 

“ Mr. Ethel, explain why I can not be a prima d(3nna for many a 
day. Yly bondage now is worse than when AVinnefred lived. You 
do not know the great trouble which threatens us. You would not 
hint at my singing in public if you did.’’ 

The rebuke had its effect. He knew of tlie expense already. 

(5 


DO 


BERENICE. 


My siugiug in public was simply from this imi)e(limei)t a ques- 
tion of time. If the charge of madness were false, I felt con- 
vinced that during our conversation he would discover it ,* if oth- 
erwise he could advise and guide me. Her life had been a sad 
and eventful one. The story of the emancipation of the Aubrey 
slaves, about which I had heard condicting rumors, Eric, at my 
solicitation, related, as follows : 

‘‘Rudolph Gault had a European misconception of slavery, 
knowing little of its responsibilities, while deriving from it im- 
measureable benefits. His was a childish appreciation of bless- 
ings that came in a tangible form, viz : the flesh pots of Egypt, 
taking them without troubling himself as to how or where they 
-came, or who had the trouble and the cost of procuring them. 
He might be called a selfish man. He was not deliberately cruel. 
A slave upon the place had committed a grave oflense, drunk- 
•eness, in the busy season. The overseer, an Eastern man, pun- 
ished delinquents with tortures, to say the least, quite original. 
He succeeded in getting more work out of the hands than any 
other overseer in the State. Gault never asked how he got it, 
for he was aivay half the time, and when at home he gave little 
attention to his affairs. A inisanthnope must necessarily become 
a dreamer. ]\lurmurs of dissatisfaction never reached his ears, 
no more than did the lashes and the cries of the victims of a 
<3ruel man’s abuse of jjower. The boy, Tom, with whom the 
tragedy is connected, was about forty years of age, a light mu- 
latto, and generally liked, as the sequel proves. This boy was 
hung head downwards to a tree by the wretch who, miscalcu- 
lating his powers of endurance, allow^ed him to remain until he 
died from the effects of his imnishmeut.'’ 

“Horrible! tell me no more of the death,” I exclaimed, “but 
of the punishment ! Wasn’t he obliged to atone for this f ' 

“Gault was maddened at the sight. He was a humane man 
when his S 3 mi])athies were directly appealed to. He would have 
rescued a fly from a cup of gruel out of pity for the fly, had he 
not at the time been in his abstracted mood. The affair was 
hushed up. Neighbors w^ere few and far between, and these 
scarcely ever had any communication with the family after Gault 
oame to Mount Marah, A few nights after the horrible death 
there was a rising of the slaves. The overseer sniffed its coming 
and fled, leaving Rudoli^h and Yictorine to bear the brunt. Gault 
had retired early one night, about a week after the tragedy, 
something unusual, as he generally remained in the library until 
a late hour. At midnight, or thereabout, one of the Venetian 
doors of his sleeping apartment was opened by a hand inserted 
between the slats. The noise, slight as it was, awakened Mrs. 


BERENICE, 


91 


Oault. She saw, iadistiiictly, a figure. The door opened noise- 
lessly. She saw by the dim taper-light that some one had entered. 
Terrified, she could not move nor speak. Another, and another 
appeared. She saw, to her horror, that the room was filled. 
There was no interpretation needed. It was the slaves. She 
knew their purpose ; she knew the cause. Quick as thought she 
placed herself between them and her husband, who had awaken- 
ed and had also realized the truth. He had no weapons. They 
were most of them armed with axes. It must have been a ter- 
rible moment to Gault, while his wife stood between him and his 
assassins. He held his life at about an Indian’s estimate of it. 
He stood unflinching j and they around him. A superhuman ef- 
fort of his wife arrested them in their murderous intent. A sud- 
den thought came upon her, to try to save him by the kindly 
influence the Aubreys had ever held over their slaves.’^ 

“ My people,’’ said she addressing them, “why do you come here 
at this unseasonable hour and in this menacing manner ? Is it to 
murder me ? Is it to murder my husband ? You come on account of 
Tom’s death.. Surely you knoAv that neither your master nor I are 
implicated in his sad fate. Speak, one and all. Ho you not know this ?” 

“ We knows it,” answered several voices at once. Then the fore- 
most, a great, brawny fellow, the leader, apparently (Tom’s brother), 
spoke up: 

“ Hat won’t do. You didn’t know. You oughter know’d what’s 
been gwme on eber since ole massa died. You know’d ebery ting 
but dis sufliin’ ; you know’d what our labor fotch, and dat’s all you 
keered for. Where was we and where’s Tom V We ain’t gwine to 
be killed up dis way. Hear Chloe and de cliil’n, and Alsie, his mud- 
der and mine, a weejiin’ and wailin’ all night, all day. We can’t 
stall’ dis; we ain’t a gwine to. ’Tain’t you we after. Miss Victorine; 
for ole massa’s sake we won’t hurt you. Stan’ back; it’s him we 
want. M'e got to git him. He’s the one what forsook us, and let us 
be ’bused and killed. We gwine to hang him up like Tom on the 
beny same tree.” 

“ You must kill me first,” answered she, undaunted. “T vow be- 
fore the blessed Christ you shall not harm my husband.” 

Rudolph started forth and assumed a menacing attitude. 

“ My husband, make no demonstration. We are both lost if you 
do,” she wliis^iered as she turned to them again. 

“ And if you do mui’der us here and no eye beholds, God sees 
ycTu. He will bring retribution upon you. Before a week you will 
be hunted down with bloodhounds. After that will you not pay the 
penalty of the crime ? You will all be hanged, or perhaps burned. 
People have no reason in their passion. There will be no escape for 
you, nor mercy shown you.” 


BERENICE. 


f>2 


“ Wlien you talks of vengeance, Miss Victorine, dat’s nuff. We- 
«ame here, all of us, by compact, to stan’ by one another, ready to 
die for Tom, after we done our work. Don’t matter much when or 
what way a man dies so he dies for some good.’^ 

“No, not a bit. No, it^s no matter,’^ a dozen voices joined in 
assent. 

“Miss Victorine, step back, else we d)liged to hold you.’^ 

“ I will not ! I mil die with him ! He is my husband ! He has 
always been kind to you ! He knew not of the overseer’s cmelty! I 
was to blame. He knew nothing of slavery. He came from a 
country where there are no slaves. He never lived among them. 
This is the reason why he gave up his authority to a hireling, not 
knowing he was a bad-heaided man. Rudolph, don’t don’t speak ; 
don’t move ; they will kill me.” She continued. “My good people, 
I was about to speak to you of mercy ; not onH of mercy, but a 
great kindness; something you have not expected. You don’t know 
what good is in store for you, what I am about to do for your good. 
Step back; the crowd oppresses me; I am faint! That wiU do now. 
First, let me ask you, did you ever know me to deviate from truth V 
That means to tell a lie.” 

“No, no! neber; nor ole massa, ^eber; vou ole massa's born 
child! 

“ You trust me. I thank you for your confidence. I wiU nuike 
you a promise ; a solemn one.’’ 

Gault grew impatient. “ Victorine, don’t parley with them ; where 
is your pride ?” 

“ Rudolph, you will destroy us both; be silent, I beseech you.” 

“Yes, Miss Victorine, we trust in your trufe; but no promise can 
bring Tom back to us.” 

“ That is too certain, too terribly sad, and I am far more grieved 
than you, for I reproach myself. You do not feel that way; you have 
done your duty. I loved poor Tom ; many a time he carried me in 
his arms to the cabins and around the fields, when I could hardly 
toddle about. But, my friends, my people, two wrongs never made 
t)ne right.” 

“ Dat’s so ! dat’s so !” was the general assent. 

“ You know what the word Freedom means ?’^ 

“ Yes ! yes ! Freedom ! Freedom ! dat we does.” 

“ Then hear me. I place it beyond the power of any one to 
injure you, ever again. I am both your protector and avenger. 
From this night, this hour, you are aU free. To-moiTow, or as early 
as possible, the papers shall be made out, substantiating what I have 
said. Do you hear? The Aubrey slaves, from the oldest to the 
youngest, are free.’^ Every face wore an astonished look. In most 
©f them the stern purpose had softened. Again, in others, came an 


BERENICE. 


9* 


•expression of keen inquii*y, as much as to say, We are being fooled 
out of our night's work. The leader spoke in reply: 

“ Miss Victorine, I hears folks say it takes two to make a bargain, 
■’specially in law. What does Massa Rudolph say ? ” 

“ Yes,” joined in others, let him speak.” 

“ Yes, we all ’zires to hear him.” 

“ I say this: I wouldn’t buy you off, you villains, for ” 

“ Rudolph ! Don’t infuriate them. There is a little hope for us. 
Don’t turn the tide,’’ whispered the poor frightened woman, while 
she held him ^vith convulsive energy, as they manifested their 
evil intent at liis words. She continued: 

“ You need not hsten to liim nor ask him anything. Am not I 
your old master’s child ? Is not this property, and you too, mine ? 
He dare not dispute my word. However, he always hated slavery, 
and often plead with me to free j^ou.” 

“ Hear dat ! Is dat true ? He don’t like slavery ! He ask Miss Vic- 
torine to free us.” 

“Yes, ’tis true; you are free as the white man — free as that 
villain. Hard. My people — no, not my people — now retire, and sleep 
well, thinking that no man has any claim upon your services, nor on 
your children’s, for future generations.” 

Some were exultant, others sullen. Vengeance with the latter was 
sweeter than freedom, but these, fortunately, were in the minority. 

“ ’Tis a fearful story, a miraculous escape. Was Uncle Isaac one 
of the insurrectionists ?” asked I. 

“No, but he was freed with the rest.” 

“ Mrs. Gault suffered deeply from the effects of that fearful night. 
A nervous disease set in, that was only partially removed by travel. 
Rudolph could never bear any allusion to the part he was compelled 
to play ” 

“ A passive part, indeed, it ivas.” 

“ And ZUlah— was she one of them?’’ 

“ Why, certamly; she is Tom’s daughter.” 


CHAPTER II. 


EXTRACTS FROM RUTH’s JOURNAL. 

ROSES AND THORNS THE LONG-WISHED-FOR ONE HAD RETURNED. 

What joy had his coming brought ? None. Indeed, I was far 
less tranquil than when hoping and wondering I waited. Wonder- 
ing how he would meet me, whether his hand would clasp mine in 
friendship, sympathy or fraternal interest, or whether words he had 
written and spoken were but idle ones. 

In my evening rambles, when my heart was troubled and my mind 
groped about in darkness, I spent many moments in the haunts 
where Winnefred and I, years before, hngered to watch the waves 
as they dashed against the bank. The trunk of a huge poplar, 
washed up by the high tide years before, again offered a place to 
rest. One evening, a few days after Mr. Ethel’s return, while I was 
seated upon it, gazing wonderingly into the restless liver — the sullen 
keeper of many a dark secret, the nepenthe for many a heaii-woe 
— wishing I were sleeeping sweetly under the waves, Mr. Ethel ap- 
proached. I had not, for the rustling of the trees and the dashing 
of the waters, heard him. I started. My face grew deadly pale, I 
know, for he remarked: 

“ I did not mean to frighten you, Ruth.” 

“ Oh, I am not frightened at aU,” I replied. 

“ If you had seen a spiiit you would not look paler.” 

Regaining composure, I answered: 

“ I ought to be excused, even if I were fiightened. We have ver- 
itable ghosts here.’^ 

“ In vrhat guise do they appear ?” 

“ As old gray-bearded men ! Yes, men. Don’t laugh. They are 
seen in the woods, always fleeing at the approach of the servants.” 

“ The servants ! They are reliable, of course. Surely you do not 
believe in visitations of spirits 

“ I do not know what I believe. Behef is a fixed and unchang- 
ing opinion. I can not claim having one upon the subject of 
spirits. It does seem to me iiossible that the ties which bind us 
here through life are not severed by death.” 


BEEENICE. 


95 


“ Then our sorrows would not be ended when we die V” 

“ Oh, yes; they might be.” 

“In witnessing the sufferings of those we love would we be happy?” 

“Ah, no; not if our spint eyes look with earthE sight upon human 
woe.” 

“ The old gray-beard may be an Indian ghost, the spirit of some 
great waiilor chief, Avho with his dusky maiden lingered some hun- 
dreds of years ago talking of war, pale-faces, trappers, skins and 
moccasins for fire-water and gew-gaws.’’ 

“ Even a savage would understand woman’s nature better than to, 
entertain her with subjects of the kind here in these grand old 
woods.” 

“ Your wise physiologist, however, proves himself a hard partner. 
After marriage his helpmate pretty generally tramps along after 
him, loaded down with the weight of his hunting trappings, or, it 
may be, with a deer, her Nimrod has shot; while he, erect as one of 
his pines, walks on, scorning in liis lordliness to look back. He might,, 
out of his goodness of heart, aUow her his gun for a staff, stiU serv- 
ing himself.” 

“ Think you her wild, gazeUe eyes have no remonstrance, no re- 
proach,, at such ignominious servitude?’’ 

“None. She holds him so far above her that the senility is a 
piivilege.” 

“ Not much of romance do we find in Indian annals, if this be in 
keeping with all their customs.” 

“ Eomances — startling ones — might be written, sho^niig clearly the 
superstitions, cruelties, barbarities and ignorance of the red men. 
A legend of theirs makes a tribe, now extinct, attribute its annihi- 
lation to a faitliless seiwant. The ‘ Sacred Fire ’ burned unceas- 
ingly, or should have done so, but it was allowed to die out b}'^ its 
careless guardian. He, in consternation, substituted a false and 
‘ profane fire,’ and the destruction of their tribe followed.” 

“The degenerate race of our day, selling sasasfi-as, willow baskets 
and pine-kindlers, are not apt to inspire one with admiration of their 
persons, or exalted ideas of their past sovereignty.” 

“ The waves never return. Do you think of it as they pass us ?’” 
asked I. 

“ I do, and are not we swept on, never again to behold the green 
and pleasant shores.” 

“ Some of us have passed no shore with regret. I never have.” 

“ The Future is.for you. God wEl not leave your life as a doubt 
of His merc}^” 

After we had tallied of home matters awhile, he asked, “ The 
property, as far as I can see, by succession will belong to Berenice. 
Has Mrs. Gault made a wIU to Ihe contrary ?” 


9 (> 


BEEENICE. 


“ 81ie once spoke to me of disinheriting Berenice. The thoughts 
’which came of lier remarks, that were not quite clear as to her inten- 
tions about the estate, made me unhappy. Would her will have 
anj^thing to do with the endeavor to prove hm* insanity ? ” 

“ Everything. An insane person is an entirely iiTesponsible one. 
A wiU is not worth a straw, if a mad woman makes it.’’ 

“Berenice accused me of coming here for mercenary motives. 
Mrs. Gault has been very unjust and cruel in making me her heir ! ’’ 

“ Unjust ! You have a singular idea of justice.” 

“ I only have one harrowing thought, which is of my being com- 
pelled to 'witness her destruction as the price of my inheritance. 
Let them know my resolution; perhaps they will cease to concern 
themselves so much about her mental condition.” 

“You speak lightly of throwing away a fortune. How httle you 
realize the value of wealth? AYe should trouble them to contest 
any wiU she may have made against their interests. Do you not 
think Mrs. Gault has a right to dispose of her property as she 
pleases ? ’’ 

“ She has the right, supposing her to be a rational being; but it 
she is to sufier by exercising that right, and we can prevent it, we 
must do so. You w’ill be obliged to relinquish, in my name, all 
claims upon the estate.” 

“ You act from impulse, as young people are apt to do. Think 
awhile, before you decide.” 

“ The choice, fortune to me or peace of mind to her, could not 
give me a moment’s consideration. Mrs. Gault need not know yet 
awhile, that I will not accept the fortune.’’ 

“ You are unappreciative of w'ealth to an exalted degree. As a 
child, you throw away a costly toy — you cast away an inheritance. 
Shrewder ones w'ould scramble for it pi*etty hard, Kuth. Since you 
seek my advice, do not hamper my movements. I am, as you w'ell 
know% a friend of Mrs. Gault, and of yours, also.” 

“ What a weight you lift from my heart ! I transfer to a wiser 
head the trouble of mine. But think well of w'hat I say; consider 
my peace of mind. Let the propei% pass to whom it may. The 
world has my fortune ; I must seek it.’’ 

‘‘My prophecy is to be fulfilled then (I thought he looked 
disappointed in the ])rospect of it being so.) 

‘‘The beginning of my career is defined clearly, wdien oppor- 
tunity favors me. The end, of which I am not so sanguine, is a 
secret in the keeping of Time.*’ 

“The inspiration of a Cassandra would not be needed to read 
your future to the last leaf. Shall I read it for you f ’ 

“Her proiihecies were not belie.ved. Your’s might share tlie 
same fate.” 


BEEENICE. 


97 


“All exquisite revenge of Apollo's after giving power to its 
effects. Nevertheless it w'as good authoritv for the downfall of 
Troy.^’ 

“As you for the triumph of Euth, you would say f In thinking 
of the ordeal which I am to pass, I say to myseif, Is the richest 
reward worth the cost ? The sense which responds to the roll of 
fame does not exist in my nature. The best feelings of my heart 
will be pervertive if I make this the aim of my life.” 

“You remind me of one disappointed by the world, one who 
said, or wrote, with fame’s highest meed within his grasp,” 

" I’d rather have one strand of golden hair 
To touch my fevered cheek. 

Than crowns immortal.” 

“And would not you write as he ‘ 

“A crown, Td trample under my feet for one true heart’s af- 
fection.” 

“Love ! Yes it is sweeter than fame. Life is lonely without 
it. I find it so.” 

“Why do you not seek for what you prefer 1” 

“I would if I dared.” 

“Dared ?” 

“Yes ; there is a strand of years between us, therefore, I fear. 
She is youDg, fair and gifted; I am old, grey — wouldnT be anew 
rendering of the old story, ‘January and May.' ” 

I had driven my parasol deep into the grassy earth. My eyes 
were fixed upon it. He waited for one word to reassure him. I 
only laughed; a vile, senseless little laugh it was, and answered : 

“January and May. Yes, it would be amusing.” 

“ What T asked he, abmptly ; “ my falling in love ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Anmsing!” said he, dwelling upon the word, giving it an impor- 
tant sound that I never believed its simplicity could embody. 
“ Amusing ! It would, indeed, amuse the world. There is such a 
strand of years between hers and mine.’’ 

He was after silent and duU enough to make me propose our re- 
turn home. Eallying from this mood, he spoke of Mrs. Gault. He 
would make all necessary researches concerning the genealogical 
tree of the Aubrey’s, from root to topmost bough, to find the ten- 
dency to mental disease. But would he ever ask me again if he 
were too old ? I concluded that men of his order would ask the 
question but once of a woman supposed to be a rustic. “ But why,” 
argumentatively, to iny own thoughts I urged, “ why didn’t he 
know that I expected him to contradict me ? Why not have said, 
‘Euth, I love you,’ instead of talking about a ‘ lady friend.’ ” We 
walked on; I was really weary, now. The moon had arisen. Still 


BERENICE. 


i)8 

not a word. At last, in the garden, near the house, a vagrant thorn 
thrust itself deep into my foot, through my shght shoe. He was 
deeply concerned about it. 

“ How careless in me to let you step upon the branch,” said he. 
“ I might have thought of thorns.” 

“ It was no fault of yours,^’ I said, while wincing at the pain, as he 
pulled out the thorn. 

“Not my fault, you say. It was my faidt. I should have been 
more attentive ” 

“ In looking for thorns. An arduous task, indeed, by moonlight,” 
said I. 

“ Your path in life should be thornless and fair and flowery. The 
Avinds of Heaven should not visit your fair form roughly, if I could 
make your fate. Do you not know this V 

“ Yes; I think you wish me well.’’ 

“ Wish you well. Is that your estimate of the heart which bows 
down to you as its God.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Ethel !’’ 

“ Does my declaration surprise you? I have told you as much, 
have I not, long ago ?” 

“ I did not understand your words.” 

“ Well, then, you shall do so. Am I, as you said just now, too 
old to reign absolutely in your soul ?” 

“ I did not say you were too old. Y"ou did not ask me.” 

“ I ask you now. If your mind is in doubt, think well, for my life 
will be influenced for good or ill by your words.’’ 

“ I think — I almost know — that I could be very devoted to you, 
without tr;ydng very hard to be so.’’ 

“ Love, wliich we have to culture, is an unpromising plant. You 
coidd love me without trying at all, perhaps.’’ 

“ Yes; I could.” 

“And I no longer young; — j^oor, too. AVhat a blessing God has 
sent me, my beautiful Ruth — my noble, self-sacrificing one. Re- 
member, the w'orld will not approve. People will hint at the dis- 
parity of years.” 

“ If you were younger, there would be a risk of pleasing every- 
bodv. Do you care ?” 

“Not!” 

“ Then why should we cavil at the diflerence of om- years, when 
your heart is as young as mine ; nay, indeed, far younger. I believe 
as Byron, that ‘ there is an order’ — pshaw ! I forget it. (He con- 
cluded it forme.) ‘ Of mortals on the earth who do become old in 
youth.’ I am one of this order. There is scarcely a memory of 
w’hat I call youth in my mind.” 


BERENICE. 


99 


“Your life has been an unusually sad one. Did it ever occur to 
3'ou that I would have an influence upon your destiny ? ” 

“ Such a feehng possessed me when I met you in "the grounds of 
Mount Marah the second time.’^ 

“ I, too, thought, ‘ How mysteriously familiar this soul of mine is 
with Eric Ethel.’ Reading ‘ Sylvan Holt’s Daughter,’ Holme Lee 
says, ‘ What men love in us is not our skill in this or that accom- 
plishment, or our cleverness, or our beauty. It is something deeper, 
better than any one of these. I cannot tell you why they love. 
They love because their Fate — the woman of all women — has come 
to them.’ You are my fate, my blessing, my hfe ! ” 

“ Ah, Eric, I am happy. I wiU envy not the fail* and fortunate 
Avho pass me in scorn, or speak in haughty beaiing — not now, since 
I am so rich — rich in your love.’^ 

We said the same sweet words over and over. We parted at 
length, as the night grew late, in the same place where he had paried 
Arith Berenice; where she, unloved and forsaken, had cast away her 
hopes as the leaves she tore from the bosom of the rose he had given 
her. 


CHAPTER III. 


“ THE QUEEN OF FANTASTIC KEALMS.” 

AVhat made me fear? Was it the immobility of Nature, whose 
works, as I glanced from earth to heaven, seemed to have been cast 
in stone by a Divine Architect ? The mysterious dread which, with- 
out cause, comes, prophetic of ill, possessed me. I felt that some 
one was near me; one who would not, who could not, rejoice at my 
happiness. One who suffered at that moment as I had suffered, 
when I crouched in the covert of vines years ago, trembhng at 
what I was compelled to hear. As I reached my room, and had 
placed my hand upon the door, Berenice stood beside me. AVhy 
w^as she up at this hour ? "WTiat did she want with me ? were ques- 
tions running through my mind. She had witnessed my parting 
with him. She came for some horrid purj^ose. What a relief when 
she simply asked: 

“ When did you return ? 1 have been waiting two hours at least. 

You steal in like a guilty thing, fearing to meet the good spirits in 
your way.” 

“ What do you want, at this late hour, with me T’’ asked I. 

“ To teU you that Mrs. Gault has been calling you for two hours 
(previous to the last half hour). As my proffered services were not 
accepted, she probably needs yours.” 

I went to Ml’S. Gault’s apartment, reiiroaching myself for leaving 
her. I glanced around; she was not there. The window that 
opened into the garden suggested a horrid thought. She might be 
beneath it, a mangled corpse ! I hurried out to find her seated 
where I had listened, an hour before, to the story of Eric’s love. 
She did not move at my approach; she appeared to be asleep. I 
touched her lightly. She looked in my face for an instant bewil- 
dered, then, in the most natural tone of voice, asked me where I 
had been when she needed me. I replied: 

“ Here, with Mr. Ethel.” 

“ Out so late with Mr. Ethel ? Can it be that wiiat I have hoped 
for is to be reahzed? You love Erie ?” 

“ Does it please you ? I hoped that it might. But you have 
called me. Berenice told me so. Why did you come out here ?” 

“ Can I not go where I choose ? Remember, I am free. Poor 


BERENICE. 


101 


Toni was a slave — my slave. He calls me here. When you meet 
me coming or going, even at midnight, say not a word. * I wanted 
you, Ruth. Of late, when I need you, like the rest of the world, you 
have forsaken me ; you leave me to my combats, instead of braving 
them with me.” 

“ What should I brave ?” 

“ Intruders, that force then way to my presence. I lock my door 
and try to rest. I glance around the room. They advance out of 
some dark corner where they have been hidden away.’’ 

“ Your having used narcotics lately accounts for the delusion. Be- 
heve me it is nothing more. Dr. Wyatt will administer to the visions 
of a troubled brain.” 

“ Visions ! visions ! Look at my .wrists. Even by this light you 
can see the marks of violence. See — see,’’ said she, baring her arm 
to the elbows; “ is this visionary? Look at the work of that fiend.” 

Thinking it best to humor the hallucination, I answered : 

“ That does give direct proof of what you say. TeU me how' it 
was. I may tliink of some way to prevent a recurrence of such 
troubles.’’ \ 

“ She Avho comes to aU, sooner or later, came to me to-night. A 
figure of marble that I saw, years ago, was the same. She made me 
a creature of her wiU. A star was set in her forehead; a burning, 
bhnding light, and wings she had — black and terrible ones, that 
flapped back and forth over me, as 1 stood within their shadow ! I 
dare not think of her.” 

“ Well, do not. To-morrow we will talk it over. The dew is 
heavy and you are not well.’’ 

“ To-morrow ! It never came, never l^rought its promise. To- 
night, this minute, you shall hear me. You must. This being that 
I saw’ had eyes; not like the marble, sealed and unfathomable, but 
cruel, cruel eyes. I could not turn aw’ay from them. Had you 
met me you would have found me charmed.” 

Her voice sank to a whisper as she w ent on with the story : 

“ Yes,” she drew me with her magnetic glance, her glittering 
eyes of steel. I tried to escape ; to slip behind the draj^ery of the 
windows, but the eyes drew me on. Out into the garden the great 
gates flew open at her command. On we went. The ground w^as 
wet with dew. My hair streamed over my shoulders, heavy with 
moisture. She would not even let me stop to bind it up. We came 
to the dark, sullen stream, poplars and pines, like sentinels, at its 
brink. We stood together, looking over into the black abyss. 
Hush ! she is in league wfith another spirit !” 

A pause. I hoped the story was ended, and that we might get to 
our room, as my courage, at this moment, was nothing to boast of, 
but she w’ent on in her wild w’ay : 


10-2 


BERENICE. 


“ The star was in a circlet of silver; it died out and left a living 
coal. Hot ! fiery ! it burned my eyes to look at it.” 

‘T am glad you came here,” said I, not knowing what else to say. 

“ Let me tell you, other people walk at midnight. Berenice trip- 
ped by awhile ago, dressed in her gi’^y silk. You would hardly have 
known her from the indefinite forms one's fancy creates of nights 
by the moon.’^ 

“ Did she see you ?” 

“ No.” 

“Was it while I was here with Mr. Ethel ?” 

“ About that time, I believe. Would it have frightened you if 
she — that woman — had led me this way ? I had then passed you 
and Eiic.” 

“ If you had, you need not have gone with her. Eric would have 
protected you. But, indeed, Mrs. Gault, you were not liear the 
stream to-night. Your troubles have unhinged your neiwes. We 
must send for Dr. AYyatt in the morning ” 

“ To exorcise a spirit ! He can not do that. She comes when you 
sleep. We go together to this dark shade under the trees. She 
13oints to the waves and wliispei's ‘ Rest.’ ” 

“ You need not hsten to her, nor beheve that there you aGU find 
Avhat she j^i’omises. God, and only God, can giA^e you rest.” 

“ I won’t go again, lest I be tempted. See, Ruth, I have armed 
myseK !” 

A razor ! I could not repress a shriek. She brandished it back 
and forth in the moonhght. 

“ I am ready, now,” said she; “I aaMI seA^er that white hand of 
hers — that hand of stone — to the AAnlst, before I avIII go Avith her to 
that Styx. Don’t put your hand on me — it is cold — ^lest I think 
it hers.” 

I AA'as not prepared for this fearfid phase of madness. My hands, 
instinctriely raised to hold hers, di-opj^ed motionless. Perhaps the 
next moment she would tliink me the EaM One. The nature of the 
weapon appalled me. The expression of her eyes added to my 
terror. She Avas the avenger. The spirit had not the ascendency. 
She revelled in her superstitious power, AAfrile teUing her experi- 
ence Avith the spii-it. 

“ I struggled and fought for my soul ! You do not AA'onder at me, 
do you ? 

“ No; but tell me, where did you get this Aveapon? An invaluable 
j^rotection it aaIU prove to us,” I added, to humor her. 

“ It is Eric’s. Don’t tell him ! ” 

“ Not I. AVe Avill keep it for this EaM One, aaLo comes to destrov 
you.” 

“ She took my hand to-night, and dreAV me to the Avaves, and bade 


BEEENICE. 


KKi 

me plunge into their depths and be free from all heart yearnings. A 
thought held me back. My lost ones — ^^vere they there V I asked 
her tliis. But a sweet voice from afar, even sweeter than yours, 
answered, ‘ They suffered sickness and awaited death, and so must 
you !’ Her face assumed the most cruel determination, for I had 
gotten out in the light, out of the shadow of the black and tempt- 
ing wave. ’Twas a blessed relief, that moonlight upon my way."’ 

“ It must have been,” answered I shuddering. “ Let us go. Think 
no more of her.” 

“ Yoii have not heard aU. This bad spirit is in league with one in 
the mountain streams in colder chines. I've read of her in old Ger- 
man legends. Lurhne — she is at the bottom of the stream. The 
power there is so strong, you long to go down to her. It was only 
a woman’s hand I struggled with, yet she girded my head with a 
band of hot iron. Then I cried for you so hard, they let me go. I 
wandered home. You were gone. I came out here then, to the 
fountain.” 

“ You feel better now? All traces of the spints are gone.” 

“ Let me have that. How I could manage her with it ! That’s 
light; give it to me.” 

I was terrified, but I had a part to play. Upon its effect depended 
my own life and hers. 

“ Just a swift sweeji of the arm, and her head will be off. Let 
me show you how,” with feigned ferocity I replied. “ Aye ! aye ! I 
see. You can’t improve on the dash I will give — so, and so. How 
I wish she were here. She’d never return to us, I’U warrant ! 

‘‘Brave Kuth ! You’ll keep her off in the French method. 
Guillotin’s philanthrophy. The head ! The knife I and the bas- 
ket! One can’t do harm then.’’ 

A moment’s pause ensued as her imagination glutted itself 
with carnage. 

‘^Did you tell any one of this siiirit that comes to tempt you ?” 
I asked. 

‘^No. I keep my own secrets.’’ 

“Bid Berenice come to your room to-night!” 

“She came, but I did not let lier enter. Slie would have given 
me up, body and soul.’’ 

“We will go into the house now, it is late.” 

“Where is the razor! Give it to me. I have both courage 
and strength ,* far more than you have. Isn’t there something 
over there in the corner ! ’Tis she !’’ 

“I see nothing, only the fawn, sadly weather-beaten and slimed 
over. Let us walk over to it.” 

“You are right ; that is the fawn.’’ 

“This exposure will make you ill. The dew is drenching me.” 


104 


BEKENICE. 


“I will go ; but since t think of it, there is a dance of the 
fairies to-night. We should be very quiet.^’ 

‘‘We will; and as they are sure to come to the fountain to 
drink out of the cups of the lilies, let us sit here and wait for 
them.’' 

“I must keep very, very still.’’ 

“Yes ; I fancy I hear their tinkling music in the distance." 

“You have seen fairies V’ 

“Many a time. In the clouds and in dreams.’’ 

She rested her head upon my shoulder to wait for the fairies. 
To my joy her limbs gradually relaxed, until she lay a dead 
weight in my arms. Sleep had come as a blessing. I dared not 
move lest I should arouse her ; yet I was chilled in heart and 
body. She awakened after a long sleep, perfectly sane, wonder- 
ing at being in tl e garden in her night clothes. The only expla- 
nation I dared give was “somnambulism.’’ 

Ko one observed us entering the house though it was after day- 
break. I soon slept soundly, exhausted from mental torture. 
There was neither doubt nor hope! She was mad! Yet, I de- 
termined to keep the knowledge of her condition as long as pos- 
sible. My time had been engrossed by ray own happiness. 1 
must ignore that life and be vigilant in my care of her. I slept 
with my arms locked around her always after this night, think- 
ing of the deep, dark stream. This freak, more than all others, 
1 dreaded. The voice of the stream promised Lethe. I found her 
often after that night, with the same delusions, escaping from 
the room. She had become so thin and worn that I could lift 
her in my arms and hold her until her horrid vision passed away. 
No one knew how 1 suffered in the silent and isolated range of 
rooms which she consented to occupy, to satisfy me. In them, 
with her, in her strange freaks, I realized the fearful responsi- 
bility I was about to assume. Yet, 1 w'ould brave it rather than 
consign her to the life she would be subjected to. I reasoned 
that lucid intervals would continue to ensue in her disease, as 
they had done in my short experience of it. A bitter grief would 
be to her my abandonment. 

I marched boldly with open eyes into the regions of horror, the 
weird realms of my story and madness. She was, when sane, the 
same placid, sorromng lady I had met on the day of my first arrival 
at the Mount. At such times I hoped, against the evidences of my 
senses, that I would hve to see her, at least what she was when I 
first met her ! This would be my great reward. Out of my ex- 
ceeding tenderness, and the hope of the influence of my kindness 
and care, I kept her secret hidden in my heart so deep, that its mas- 
ter knew not of it. No one loved her as I. They would chain her 


BERENICE. 


105 


as relentlessly, as cruel, as a wild lioness! Not I, to betray her to 
them. If she were to murder me in her frenzy who would care ? 
Who but Eric ? And as he, in consideration of my safety, would be 
most active against her, I dare not let him know of her condition. 
There were, to be sure, short periods of time when she was entirely 
rational. In one of them she begged me not to immure myself with 
her any longer, but to take the recreation I so sorely needed. When 
I told Eric that I was not to be in future entirely a prisoner or a 
nurse, his face lit up with joy. 

“ There is nothing unusual in Mrs. Gault’s ailment, is there 
asked he, anxiously. 

“ Nothing that we dreaded.” 

He did not notice the evasion in my answer. 

“ I am glad to lind that it is not so. Let us walk out in the gar- 
den; there are so many here, and I have not talked with you for so 
long.” 

I replied, hesitating to go : 

“ I may be called at any moment. We had better sit on the gal- 
lery, I think, where I can hear Mrs. Gault if she needs me.” 

Absent-minded, restless, starting at every sound, scarcely giving’ 
relevant answers to his (questions. Dissatisfied at my manner, he asked : 

“ Ruth, darling, Avhat is the matter with you ?” 

“ Nothing, Eric. ^Vliy ?” 

“ You act unnaturally ; you make me wretched. After waiting so 
long to pass an hour aaRIi you, you scarcely seem to knoAV AA'hat I 
am saying.” 

‘‘ You should pity me. I can not control my feelings. I am very 
anxious about Mrs. Gault.’’ 

“ I hope there is no danger of insanity. Do forget her for aAvhile 
and think of me. Sing one song, Avon’t you 

“ Sing ? Oh, no 1 I couldn’t, Eric. The song Avould change to 
sobs.” 

“Your actions are mysterious. You liaA'e secrets from me, I fear.’’ 

“ There ! Mrs. Gault is caUing me. I thought I heard her before. 
She is sick. I must go to her. I Avill see you again as soon as pos- 
sible, Eric. Oh, don’t look that Avay at me — so stern. Smile ! No, 
you AVon’t ? Well, God help me.” 

Again I heard her calling. I reached the door to find it locked. 
I knocked. No one came. I thought of a duplicate key. When I 
entered the room Mrs. Gault Avas in a ridiculous position — fearful 
Avith its ludicrousness; her arms clasped around the bed-post, re- 
sisting in imagination some one Avho tned to draAV her thereRom. 
She shrieked and loosened her hold, as I entered. My presence 
had lain the spectre — the spirit ’’ that Avanted her to go to the 
water. 

7 


10 () 


BERENICE. 


“ I had just told her, Euth,” said she, so piteously, “ that if she 
-would promise not to fasten that iron hand on my head, I would go. 
I could not help it. I was tired of struggling against her. Your 
coming saved me. That stream would he death to my soul.” 

My parting with Eric had heen unsatisfactory. She slei)t sweetly. 
I knew I might safely return to him and he would, at least, say 
“good night.” 1 would ask him to tolerate my conduct, enigmatical 
as it might seem to him. I reached the threshold; I passed. Caesar 
upon the hanks of the Euhicon had not wilder tunndt in his heart 
than I. Jealousy was my demon. He was chatting merrily with 
Grace Pierpont. She had taken my seat near him. I imagined my- 
self deeply aggrieved. Was not Eric solely mine ? And for him to 
be happy and attentive to her while 1 was miserable Avas cjuite 
shameful. 

Long after I had decided not to cross the Euhicon, my pride had 
raised. I had the exquisite torture of healing them conversing very 
pleasantly, up to midnight. 

Oh, foohslily exacting, Love ! Hoav inconsistent are yoim ways ! 

He came lightly up the stau's, three or four at hound, in the best 
of humor. His last words to Miss Pierpont came to my ear: 

“ Goodnight, Miss Grace; we must finish this controA^ersy in the 
morning. SAveet dreams to you.” 

I confronted him in all my dire vengeance, to let him knoAV that I 
Avas fully aAvare of his iniquitous proceedings. 

“ He had heen entertaining Miss Pierpont.'’ Instead of looking 
confused and comprised, he stepped forAvard AA^ith a hound of de- 
light at seeing me. 

“ Why, SAveetest, is this you? You have Avaited for me.” 

“ I have not waited for you.’’ 

“ Well, I waited, thinking you would come again Avhen you could.’’ 

“ Take your tlioughts and yourself aAvay, sir. I knoAV hoAV much 
you missed my presence Avhen you had ]\Iiss Pierpont, avIio has kept 
you chained, charmed, until this hour — tAveLe !” 

He laughed, actually laughed, his sweet young laugh, tAventy 
years younger than himself. He still stood, hoping that I Avould 
take a merry view of the matter. 

“ Do kiss me good night, Euth. Ple-e-ease ?” 

“No; kiss Miss Pierpont.’’ 

I realized that I Avas becoming ridiculous, Avhen he laughed again 
and said: 

“ I have no right to ask her to kiss me. She Avould he very likely 
to box my ears. ’ 

“And none to ask me, under present appearances;” and Avuth this 
I swept into my room and closed the door spitefully. I heard him 
as his steps died aAvay, Avhistling, “ Come where my love lies dream- 


J3EHENI0E. 


107 


ing.” I (lid not dream that night; I cried. The hours, as the (dock 
noted them, never seemed so long apart. (Difference of the love of 
the sexes — >one sleeping, sweet, sound slumher. The other ? It is 
not necessary to explain her condition.) 1 did not go down stairs 
in the morning, ashamed of my display of temper, and also deeply 
aggrieved. The last words of Eric to Grace were equivalent to an 
agreement to meet and continue the controversy. I wrought myself 
up to a very miserable state. Giving him up to Grace, “ who was 
wealthy^’ and “ more congenial;” unmuring myself, like a martyr, 
without reffec.ting upon the causes for so doing. A novice in gal- 
lantry, it never occurred to me that there were so many attentions, 
sighs, tears, smiles, vows, that meant nothing but to pass aw^ay tune. 
She, as a guest, was expected to make herself attractive to the mem- 
bers of the household. 

Mrs. Gault was, in tlie morning, better than 1 had seen her for 
some time. Grace and Eric were singing a duett. In hearing 
them she was reminded of my voice. A source of self-glorifica- 
tion when I heard others sing. In this I had been singled out 
from many, and 1 valued it at its worth. 

“iiuth/' said she, ‘‘go down and sing. I hate attempts at 3 ’ 0 ur 
songs.” 

Any request of her had a solemnity, deep as the words of the 
dying. 1 mastered my objections and went to the parlor in 
niourniug dress, Puritanical collar and cuffs, suiting my rigid de- 
meanor. ' He leaned over Grace as she sat at the piano — wasn’t 
it fearful in my eyes, that sort of behavior. She arose, unem- 
barrassed, and met me with a kiss. If there was a Judas, I can 
certify that ’twas not she. She had resigned her seat, saying as 
she did so, “Music, Eiith, dear, if you please, not like mine.'’ 

Mj' answer was chilling, as I answered : 

“I came, by request, to sing an old ballad for Mrs. Gault. 
Mother Goose’s Melodies would be an effort lo-daj^, for I am not 
in a musical vein.” 

“How is Mrs. Gault ?” 

“Better ; decidedly so.” 

“There are no indications of what we dreaded I” asked Grace. 

“]!^one, whatever. She is only weak and debilitated, and 
averse to company.” 

“Kuth,” spoke up my lover, “you ought to induce her to take 
exercise, to walk, or to ride. 1 would gladly accompany 3 ^ 011 . I 
am getting to be the fifth wheel here. Make me a more essential 
one to the family chariot, or I shall leave it to roll along without 
me. Whether <ir not my time of stay is limited, letters just re- 
ceived will hurry me away.” 

Intimidated, 1 replied very humbly, “that at present he would 


108 


BERENICE. 


liave to depeud upon Miss Grace to engage bis leisure hours, but 
as 600U as possible I would make him our cavalier in walks, rides^. 
etc. But the song! She is expecting to hear ‘Auld Bobiu 
Grey.’ 

“That is sad enough,” Grace remarked. 

“It suits my mood,” said I. Eric looked inquisitively at me 
lie placed the music beiore me. We sang together. We had not 
gotten through half a dozen verses when my voice faltered, and 
the hard pressing down of my lids could not hide the tears.. 
Grace (sensible girl) had left us alone. The pathos of the song 
was too great for my unhappy state of mind. My voice trembled^, 
but it rallied and regained itself. AYe finished the song, but I 
had completely broken down. Covering my face with my hands 
I tried to hide the tears. He took a seat beside me, drew my 
head down to rest upon his breast, implored me to tell him what 
kept me so estranged, so cold! 

“ Am I not attending to Mrs. Gault, Eric ? ” 

“ Yes, you are. But there is more than that. Estrangement is 
written in your expression — in every movement. You have some- 
thing to say to me, and yet you fear to say it.” 

“ Doubt ! from you ? Don’t talk of my jealous}' after this. You 
are gay in your ahliction — that is the difference in us.” 

“ Ruth, dearest, every one’s heart is not readable. Yours would 
be the only power to deprive me of the rebounding, elastic element. 
Only yours. Last night you amused me; to-day I begin to be 
senous. There is not a woman in the world of any interest to me 
but you. Do you doubt it ?” 

My heart was light as I answered: 

“ How ridiculous I have made myself ! I do not doubt you. I 
find that gallantry which men practice is only a polite name for 
deceit. If I were a man, I thmk I would be above all deception, 
just as I am as a woman.” 

“ I cannot help behaving to all women gallantly, unless I dislike 
them very much.’’ 

“ I am jealous — I can’t overcome it. There are, for relief, two 
outlets or safety valves — grief and retaliation.” 

“ But you havn’t time to devote to one lover. How can you find 
time to taunt him by attentions to another. You can't possibly 
retaliate here at A fount Alarah.” 


CHAPTER lY. 


EXTRACTS FROM RUTHS JOURNAL. 

SKELETONS BEHIND THE DOOR. 

Slowly but surely came tlie doom of the lady of Mount Marali. 
Mentally and physically the change kept pace. I believe she knew 
her condition, though she was resolute in refusing medical aid. Dr. 
Wyatt came by my request, when her symptoms were most alarm- 
ing. To my dismay, she refused to see him. 

“ We must ask his advice about the fever’s returning so persist- 
'«ntly,” suggested I. 

“ It is not worthy of notice; I have had fevers all my life.^’ 

“ But you are wasting away to a shadow.” 

“You are presuming in your persistency; obey me, andheep your 
advice for fools.’’ 

Eor a moment I held her responsible, as she appeared entirely 
self-possessed while she spoke. My piide urged me to go, but 1 
stni lingered in the room, hoping she would relent in her purpose of 
not receiving the Doctor. 

“ Go,” said she, sharply, “go at once; I want to be alone.” 

It was surely ill-judged of Berenice to have guests in the house at 
all times. That night the parlors were filled. With an undefinable 
dread I awaited the results of the evening. I went to meet Dr. 
Wyatt, hoping she would by some caprice soon follow me. She did 
so in a few moments. She was placid in her looks and mien — care- 
fully dressed, too; every strand of her hair in its best arrangement; 
livid, white, unearthly looking, her features sharpened. The mourn- 
ing dress increased her pallor. I had not realized, until then, how 
changed she was. A pause ensued in the flow of conversation, as 
she entered. Many present had heard of her mental derangement. 
With a piteous, child-like welcome in her face, she met Dr. Wyatt. 

“ You have come at last,’’ said she, “ I might have died, and you 
none the wiser.” 

The words in reply were intended for her ear alone, but I heard 
them : 

“ Yictorine, I did not believe my visits would be welcome, either, 
as physician or friend.” 


110 


BERENICE. 


He sat looking so earnestly and sadly upon her. 

“ Physician and friend,’’ said she, pausing to weigh the words. 
“ In which character are you here to-night ? I think Ruth sent for 
you.” 

“ As either, or both. You \\i\l not object to the combination ?” he 
replied. 

“ I can not. I need both. I am ailing. Yly poor head ! Some- 
times I think I have no head,” said she, putting up both hands to 
it. “ Then, again, it is so heavy, so heavy, so busy, too, and so hot, 
that my eyes, in their sockets, are like tire.” 

“ Something for the neiwes you must have immediately.” 

“ So much for the body. I have another ailment.” 

“ What is that ?” 

“ You have no cure for it. Can you tell me what 1 seek to know ? 
Will you tell me ?” 

“ It may be that I can not.” 

“ Had Berenice the plotting and also the exe(*ution of the darkest 
deed that man or woman ever perpetrated V” 

“ What deed do 3*011 mean?” , 

“ The deed of murder.’’ 

There was a dead silence, and white, terror-stricken faces. Her 
e3’es flashed with a strange fire. Berenice trembled, and leaned 
upon her husband’s breast. He, in terror, sheltered her m his arms. 
All were eager, expectant. Not a svUable she uttered was lost. In 
a voice that thrilled eveiy soul, pointing to Berenice, she said : 

“ That fiend in woman’s form, that beautifid demon, with her 
daiing eyes, Avho murdered Julian, poisoned my child ! Let all see 
and hear. No more disguises — no more mere}*; but vengeance, 
quick and sure.” 

Dr. W3’att approached her, took her hand in his, and looked into 
her e3*es with a tender, pleading look, calling her name, sa3*ing, in a 
low tone : 

“ Victorine, for God’s sake, for mv sake, for the sake of 3*our dead 
husband, say no more. She bears his name. She is his child.” 

“ I hate the name of Gault.” 

“ Come, come, be guided b3- me, as 3*011 used to be. You are ill, 
Victorine, veiy ill. You need care. I will not again leave 3*011 to 
3*omself and Riith.’^ 

W^hat magic there was in his voice and touch ! After YIrs. Gault 
left the room with Dr. W3*att, no one seemed wilhng to trust their 
voices. The silence was terrible after the previous hilarity. 

Berenice at last explained that Mrs. Gault had spells of insan- 
ity. They would be compelled, she supposed, to send her to some 
%*etreat, as her disease had assumed the most malignant type. 
Curiosity, I think, brought many to the liouse, perhaps to see 


BERENICE. 


Ill 


how a mad woman looked and acted in an unrestrained life. 
Mrs. Moore, to others, may have been the attraction, especiall3’ 
was she so to the gentlemen. With cards, chess and backgam- 
mon she entertained them ; flattering and receiving their mock- 
homage with coquettish grace. Flirtations, which in appearance 
approached amours, went on without restraint. No one ever saw 
a look of annoyance on Dr. Moore’s face, not even when his wife 
was in her gayest moods. He would seem to be entirely en- 
grossed in play or conversation, while she sat, sometimes discuss- 
ing him iu a low tone, as the listener bent down until their heads 
were in contact. If it happened to be the favored one of the 
hour, she would tap his cheek with her fan at his jdeasan tries, 
or, it might be, at a sarcasm that cut where she hated. All was 
not as appearances indicated. Outraged and goaded to frenzy, 
he was heard to say to his wife, “Be less personal, madame, in 
your attentions to your admirers. I can’t tight all who visit 
here, but if one, you know who I mean, if he sits hy ,you, hang- 
ing over your chair, looking over the same page, bringing flowers 
for your hair, which .you wear in m3" presence, allowing people to 
think me a dupe, a consummate fool, or worse, acouvenient man 
— mark me, if this goes on, I shall vindicate m3"self.” 

“What will you do 

“I wdll blow his brains out, it a bullet can And them. Defend 
him, if you dare ; defend him even by a look. Measure well the 
cost of 3"our amusements. Measure it before it is too late.” 

“You are a chivalrous man. You make yourself ridiculous in 
presuming that each and every man who visits 3-our house comes 
to violate the laws of hospitalitj^ Then, coward, as you are, 
.3"Ou turn upon the weaker party. AVh3' not dare ymur equal, 
or .3"our master, who seeks me?” 

“I will, when I can do nothing else for my honor. 1 do not 
want another man’s blood upon 3"our soul 5 therefore, 1 have 
warned you.” 

“You are a braggart. I am alwa.vs to be the sufferer through 
life to death ; transfixed to tlie fiery wheel of your angry and 
craven spirit. You are the thing for which, of all others, I have 
the most sovereign contempt — a jealous husband who remains in 
his thralldom.” 

‘‘ Our compact, madame, on m3’ part, was a pure affection. It is 
past. I find a Consuelo, fair, pure as the ideal of George Sand.” 

“ Pure V 

“ A3'e, pure ! Who is she ? 3"Ou would ask. Believe me, she is 
most unlike 3’ou, of all women I have ever met. I am indifferent to 
your amours. Carry them out to the. faidherest hmit of 3"our con- 
science, but remember, I won’t be a mark for eveiy e3’e. ^lake 3"oiu 


112 


BEEENICE. 


civilities so general in future, that no one can point to the favored 
lover. You are not aware that I overheard remarks to which 1 can’t 
succumb. AVhat did that poodle say to you the other day, here in 
my house — or your house ? 

“ One always finds you alone, Mrs. Moore.’’ 

“Was that anything but a re2)roach to you ? Am I not always 
alone 

“Wait, madame, let me give you the rest of the confab: “ I'm 
deuced glad the Doctor is so accommodating as to allow me the 
quiet enjoyment of his lady’s enchanting society.” 

“ Lord ! you weigh men’s words. A strain of gallantry they en- 
tertain us with, it meaning nothing.’’ 

“ And 3"ou are liapjyy to be so entertained at my expense. Try it 
again, if you dare !” 

He had gone ! 

“ Can it be that this creature loves me ? Could he do, or say, 
aught that w^ould rouse my ire ? Nothing ! I could make him, with 
my own hands, a couch of roses in the Tsle of Lemnos,’ bring to 
him the most peerless Phryne, Lais, or more modest mid chary 
ones, without a pang. His Consuelo ! If she were here, out of 
fondest, deejiest gratitude, I would fold her to my heart, I would 
bless her for ridding me of his comjiany, as she does. Ah ! I see it 
aU. He does not love me, but it touches his jiride ! his honor ! — my 
jileasantries! I have none. Honor for a Avife is quite absurd; so- 
ciety says there is none. She can be pointed at and jiitied. Her wan- 
ton rivals that sleeji ujion his breast, when she is keeping lonely 
vigils, waiting for him, sighing her heart away, drop by drop — they 
may meet her in jiublic places, and flaunt the gaudy garments and 
costly jewels which he has j^urchased. Yet she must be meek and 
bear all, catching at any little waif of affection he throws to her in 
his leisure hours, when sated with others. If I loved this man — this 
husband of mine — I would kill him. Fortunately, I hate him ! — I 
hate all men ! This thing ! — this ruffian ! will continue to annoy me 
with the crochet in his brain of his honor ! Would to heaven I 
could suUy it. I can not, for I am cold ! dead ! dead ! Euth Ward 
dug the grave where my heart is buried.” 


CHAPTEK y. 


EXTRACTS FROM RUTHS JOURNAL. 

THE LITTLE ADDER. 

Through the crystal gates of memory, the world of visions rises to 
my view — the beautiful world of the “ Might Have Been.” Events 
w^hich colored my whole hfe come vividly back. My heaid writhes 
with sudden pain, and again it lies cold and dead under the stab of 
her cruel accusations. Ah, yes; how truly! I live over again an 
eventful day. The book which I had been poring over, striving for 
light, is opened before me.' The passages which I had marked 
because they formed a partial elucidation of my feariul enigma, 
glare upon me in their fearful import. I hear from her hps in deep 
and meaning emphasis, their signification to her. 

“ Propensity to suicide is hereditary and uncontrollable, the same 
as insanity.” 

“ I agree with the author in his opinion,” said she. 

“ Insanity often comes fr’om the mind constantly dwelling upon 
the fear of its coming. It evokes the doom it dreads.” 

“Ah ! there is no escape fr'om Fate 1 ” 

How I shuddered as she read, and fixed her gaze upon me. How 
I hated myself for my foUy in leaving the book within her reach. A 
strange and inquisitive glance -was fixed upon my crimsoned face as 
she closed the volume and asked in an earnest tone : 

“ Are you interested in such subjects for yourself?” 

“ Not at all. The soundness of my mental condition admits of no 
doubt. I like to read the views of great minds on any subject. 
Any monomania is incipient madness,” I replied. 

“ An ever-recurring train of ideas should give us deep concern as 
to theil indelibility. Passages are marked touching upon one hor- 
lible idea ! Why is it ? Do you know any one who is likely to go 
mad V 

I shuddered at her vehement manner. I answered, calmly as I 
could : 

“ Certainly not.’^ 

“ I am a bookworm, and am, perhaps, more diffuse than choice in 
my depredations.” 


114 


BERENICE. 


She still kept looking eagerly through the volume. She read on 
aloud, remarking: 

“ Here some one says to us, what religious people never say, ‘ Our 
passions are unnatural perturbations of the mind which can not be 
avoided.’ ” 

“ May not the idea be a correct one ? Any of us are liable to sin. 
Berenice assumes a new character.’’ 

I looked at her in amazement and inquiry. She resumed, reading 
and commenting: 

“ The darkest j^assions of the human heart arise from jealousy.” 

“ In jejdousy one feels lacerating pain, as though a portion of the 
heart was being torn away.’’ 

She fixed her gaze upon me, saying: 

“ The man who wrote that sentence felt it. In the early part of 
the hfe of Berenice, I came to share — or rather to monopolize — her 
father’s love, thus engendering the evil passion. Then again, in 
after years, she loved Eric Ethel : she lost him. She changed from 
woman to demon, all through jealousy.” 

“She always hated me. Before I saw Mr, Ethel she was cruel to me.’’ 

“ A premonition of ill, to fall upon her, through your agency. She 
knew by inner sight you were to be the blight of her life. I give, as 
a proof of your being so, the fact that she has since that ill-fated 
passion, loved no one. She hates her husband. An interview with 
her to-day explained her actions and feelings, since you came to 
Mount Mar ah. She said, apphcably: ‘The little adder, found fro- 
zen hal'd and dead, when thawed by kindness, returned to life to 
sting and destroy.’’’ 

My face grew livid, 

“Her kindness did not restore me,” replied I; adding, angrily: 
“ How cruelly you wound me with her speeches. But let me have 
the benefit of all she said, since you have gone so far. Do not spare 
;ne. TeU me her conversation, every word of it.” 

“ Madam de Chaiital on ‘Desire and the Suffering of Self-Denial,’ 
a volume in the library, would Inive saved you from betraAdng a 
lovely woman. The suffering of resistance to temptation would 
have been the penalty of the sin of being tempted, and have gained 
for you pardon.” 

I exclaimed, •excitedly : 

“ Do you reproach me ? You for whom I liave sacrificed my 
whole life, or the best part of it.’’ 

‘‘You, in turn, heap fire uiion iny head ‘f Y'our life ivas wasted 
for me, you say. That can not be undone now. Let me speak 
of the consequences of your folly. Never did evil seed bring 
forth such good fruit. The monster is revealed in his naked de- 
formity.’’ 


13EEENICE. 


115 


“What monster? AYhat do you meaii?’^ asked I. 

“The man who would wed you for the inheritance that has been 
a curse to its owners ever since I can remember. Berenice, a s 
the heiress of the Aubrey estate, was v(5ry dear to Mr. Ethel. 
Ruth Ward, in time, was still dearer. But when there is a doubt 
of the heirship^ if there ever could be one, he would make her as 
wretched and as wicked as be has ruade llerenice. Grace Pier- 
pont is rich. Do you understand 

“The bane grows near the antidote.” 

“Discard the fortune-hunter* I liave warned you. Be benefit- 
ed by my warning. Leave mo now to my own thoughts.” 

Stunned with the blow, I went to my room, sank or reeled into 
my seat by the window where I had often watched the mother- 
robins, years before in the old oak. Across the fields (unpropi- 
tious hour) I saw Eric and Grace walking leisurely along. His 
arms folded over his breast in a way of Ids, that made him look 
so grand — ]Srax)oleonic. Grace had taken off her jaunty, gipsy- 
hat, which harmonized well with her gipsy ways. It swung 
carelessly over her arm. They both formed a i)leasant episode 
in a summer landscape. The background of a golden sunset 
made it perfect. 1 :?tn but a savage to her, I thought. She has 
the polish that society gives. I do sing, but so do the birds; yet 
one tires of them. The sense of hearing is the most certain of 
all senses to be soonest sated. Deeply perplexed, cruelly wronged, 
no words could describe my desolation in that hour. Winnie, 
that loved me, was in her grave. Oh, (thought I) could I but 
feel the pressure of her little hand! Could I hold her to my 
heart but once. She would bring back life. Eunice, Tis likely, 
never thinks of me. Mrs. Gault, having no need of me spurns 
and stings me with her rebukes like the “adder.” She brings in 
illustrations of my own existence. She has bitterly disappoint- 
ed me! What sleepless nights and wretched days 1 have spent 
lor her sake ; concealing fearful scenes ; fearing nothing, only that 
in her frenzy she would betray herself. Tsbght after night 1 have 
kept watch over her, until with weary eyes, heavy and nerveless 
lids, 1 sank to fitful slumber with my arms thrown round her, 
ready to spring to her aid at the slightest movement. I have 
wronged Berenice, there is no question of it ; remorse over- 
whelmed me. She loved him who played false to both. When 
she was poor he cast her love to the wind for me. The mid-night 
quarrel was prepared ; she fell into the snare. I will not accept 
this accursed estate ; he knows it, and consequently he is about 
to transfer his worthless love to another who has wealth. In an- 
ticipating his projects I aid him in carrying them out. From 
this moment he is no more to me. They are coming! I will 


11 (> 


BERENICE. 


meet him while the flush of auger is on my cheek. I dare uot 
deliberate. I am too fond, too weak. Upon reflection, how could 
he have conceived a sudden passion for me, when there was a 
dazzling woman, in the summer of her beauty, with all 'vantage 
of art, education, world knowledge as my compeer. Pshaw ! be 
loves her still, and returned thither to fan up the dying embers. 
She was married — he turns to me. 

My last interview with Eric Ethel is a confused idea of a tear- 
ful moment. I cannot tell what I accused him of, but his answer 
is fresh in my mind. 

‘‘What were you talking of, Ruth, just now? Did 1 compre- 
hend you ? You prefer a life more brilliant than that of a poor 
man’s wife? I am now very poor. You knew it; I did not de- 
ceive you.’ 

“I said what I mean.” 

“Madness must be contagious, and you have caught the infec- 
tion. The change in your manner can be attributed to no other 
cause.’’ 

“There is another. I have no right to your love, even if I had 
it, which I doubt. Who changed Berenice’s nature ! With her 
strong passions no one should wonder at the change. I would 
hate one wUo had taken from me wUat I prized more than life. 
First, in her love I wronged her, and again in her fortune ; but 
no, in that 1 am sinless. I never wanted the estate.” 

“All these things were considered. Unless you can convice me 
otherwise, I shall believe that our mutual enemy has been at 
work.’’ 

“No ; our mutual friend has — Mrs. Gault.’’ 

“What could she say ?” 

“She has shown me satisfactorily that I have wronged Berenice; 
I can make partial amends. You never can. She loved you . 
you betrayed her. Not for Ruth Ward, but for the Aubrey 
estate which runs the gauntlet, mocks your efltbrts, perishes from 
your grasp. It will never more be the bond ’twixt you and me.” 

The color faded from his face; in its place came a look of 
agony, then a struggle, a manly mastering of the inward strife ; 
’twas hate or disappointment, I knew not which. I had read so 
little of the human face, that book of Nature where so muck is 
revealed. But there was no mistaking the scorn of his firm lip, 
nor the forced and unnatural smile that revealed the white, even 
teeth, as he spoke. 

“Had you made any accusation against me but the one of for- 
tune hunting, I might have taken pains to convince you that you 
had wronged me. In later years you will do me justice to be- 
lieve that my affection was disinterested. Profit by it when an- 


BEllENICE. 


117 


other loves you Iialf as well as I. You are young; the world is 
all befoie you — T am old. Ah ! I was a fool to think of keeping 
your love. 1 will not reproach you ; I leave that to your own 
heart. Farewell, Euth !” 

I could not speak ; I held out my hand ; he kissed it and left 
me, and Mount Marah. A long time after he had goue came a 
withering, blighting conviction to me that Mrs. Gault might 
have been in a state of mind which made her words no more 
tlian ravings. 1 had read, and recollected well, in some work a 
passage which said, ‘‘In insanity we have often no guide to judge 
of its existence.” I savv plainly" that there was in this disease a 
deeper, subtler element to be traced out ; one not on the surface. 
I concluded that the demented deceive us and know that they 
are deceiving. They exult over the ruin they bring about them- 
selves and us. At times they are conscious that the light of the 
Temple of Eeason wavers, and strugirle to keep it burning. But 
greater effort they make to conceal the truth which appals them. 
M}" perceptions had been thus cheated by a mad woman. I had, 
at the time of her conversation, full confidence in her being re- 
sponsible for what she said of Eric. The change in her manner 
existed for weeks. Yo pleasant words, no kindly glances, no de- 
sire for my i)resence. In the whole world none were so lone as 
I. Uncared for “Drift upon the shore,’’ as Berenice had said. 
Now was my opportunity to leave Mount Marah. No one needed 
me. The romance of my future was gone. Stern necessity stared 
me in the face. Hopes, above being tolerated as a vocalist, never 
crossed me now. The adder was effectually frozen. As a trial, 
wondering whether with all blessings, my voice hud not failed 
me, I went out to the woods to sing. A fcTV strains convinced me 
that 1 had not lost by the reM intervening. I was returning, re- 
solved to prepare myself for an early departure, when Mrs. Gault 
appeared suddenly in the walk. She drew my arm in hers in 
her old, familiar way. The i)rospect of regaining her favor was 
a joy to me if anything could be a joy. 

“Eestless old river ! how madly he rushes by. A ]>lea8aut 
death drowning must be. Brain and body worn out, fevered, 
parched. A plunge into this would be so cool, so soothing, so 
obliterating.” 

I shuddered; still I thought it might be but a mere casual remark. 

“Stand here, Euth,” she continued. Mount IMarah from this 
point is a lovely view ! See, the fields to the east all ready for 
the gleaning, and the groves of orange trees heavy with fruit, 
and the evergreen hedges ; Winter roses, too. It is always Sum- 
mer for them, even in the dead of Winter. There is scarcely 
a leafless tree to be seen.” 


118 


BEHENICE. 


“ None but a few sycamores,’^ I answered, “ and they, in 'Winter 
colors, add beauty to the scene ; and the bananas in then' tattered 
grandeur — the natives of the Orient. The association makes them 
grand to me, even in decay."’ 

“ All this place is youi’S, Iluth; only think of it. For a poor giil it 
is a pretty out-setting in hfe.” 

“ It has been my misery, this properiy. By it my iieart is broken ; 
for it, I hate and scorn the world.” 

“ What in Heaven’s name has the proiierty to do with your unhap- 
piness V” 

“ Everything. When for this Eric Ethel sought me and betrayed 
tinother; and lie would in tui-n have served me the same way. Oh, 
mone}' ! money ! how I desjiise it.” 

“ AMiy, Buth, who told you this V’’ 

“You ask me that question? Was it not your lijis that bade me 
beware of the fortune-hunters ?” 

“ Mine ? You di-eam !” 

And (.lid Berenice tell you nothing of me ? Did she ne^ er speiik 
my name m connection with Mr. Ethel’s ?” 

“ I w^ould not have hstened to her. What mistake is this ? You 
have sent Eric aw'ay for a base slander. 1 thought you liad a heaii 
to feel and judgment to know" better.” I dared not say w'hat she 
had done; but she knew that something was wTong. “There is a 
discrei^anc}" in yoiu conversation, Buth. I have said something that 
has led to trouble, have I not ? You stay away fi’om mo too much. 
Are you tired of me ?"’ 

“ "STou do not need me, do you ? I thought of going, since you are 
so w"eU.” 

“ Of leaving me in this situation ? Ah, you little dream of my ail- 
ment.” • 

“ I will not go, if you desue me to stay.” 

“ Bless you ! Don’t leave me. No, no. You must not think of it.’’ 
(I had wuecked my happhiess by not understanding the idiosyncracy 
of mental disease.) “ I would lilce to study mnemonics to assist my 
memory,” she resumed. “ Many events are lost to me. There are 
lapses of time of which I have either no recollection, or a very vague 
one. It is Winter — December ? I can not remember anything that 
transpired in the Fall. Is it not strange ?” 

“ Bather so; but you should make an effort to keej:) your mind re- 
tentive. One’s will has power to combat formidable foes.” 

“ Ah, I have read Avhat appertains to fiiat : ‘ If the pow'er of our 
reason (which is w"ill) could control aberration of mind, no reason- 
able being w’ould go mad.’ ” 

She continued, after this quotation : “ The stniggle goes on from 
day to day within my poor brain. It is a struggle for reason — notli- 


BERENICE. 


IR) 


ing else, Rutli. My will is strong, but it wrestles with a stronger 
power, and is nearly overcome in the stiife. I have no meniorv. 
I know now that you are Ruth; I know that these are the woods of 
Moiint Marah, but backwards, nothing or 'v'ery little.” 

I drew her from her own thoughts to talk of brighter subjects. 
We walked homeward. She was passive, somnambulistic, it seemed. 
Her glance Avas fixed, as if, far away, she saAv an object of interest. 
No one observed this, of any change that ever came, until the last. 
We lived so much to ourselves. I managed to get once more the 
advice of our lAhysician and true fiiend. He thought there was mo 
immediate danger of an unfavorable culmination in her disease ; Init 
Ave must not tmst too far. He kncAV nothing of the series of hor- 
rors that I had experienced Avith her. 

Another ordeal came. An irrelevancy in her manner denottnl its 
appro^icli. She Avould lose the thread of conversation, and then be- 
come impatient at her oavii Aveakness. She Avould Avander about the 
grounds in her old dreamy Avay, Avithout speaking to or noticing 
any one. A fearful suspense to me, while 1 AA'aited, wondeiing Avhat 
unnatural act she Avould commit 1 She tried to evade me, and, with 
all my watchfulness, often succeeded. I had a double charge. To 
keep her from betraying herself to her enemies Avas not the least. 
They kneAv that what was necessary to theu* desires and contributive 
to their interests Avas about to be fulfilled. Long afterAvards I asca'i;- 
tained that a strict surveillance Avas held over our movements. 

One freak of Mrs. Gault’s ])uzzled me exceedingly. The apart- 
ment that Avas always to me the gloomiest at Mount Marah, had to 
her an attraction. When she supposed me to be forgetful of her, to 
get to tliis room was her aim. One of the dreariest of winter nights, 
remonstrance could not change her intention of our passing " the 
evening in it. I should, she said, assist her in OA’eiiooking some 
“important papers.” I strove to give my manner an air of uncon- 
cern, or at least to divest it of all appearance of fear; but, Avith the 
deep and subtle discernment of madness, she kneAv my anxiety to 
thwart her. She had changed even in person in that one memorable 
and tragic day. Her features Avere sharpened, her lips blanched, 
her eyes phosphorescent. In the morning I had A\ished for the day 
to close, but night was more fearful. We entered the room. The 
light shone full upon the Garden of Gethsemane. I prayed fer- 
A^ently, mentally, for I durst not sj)eak, as I looked upon it. De- 
spairing I said: “ Would that the end were near to me, as Thine to 
Thee at that hour. Would that tliis room were my Garden of Sor- 
roAV, and the morn the one of Doom.^’ Then rebelhous thoughts 
came. “ What are the Aubreys to me ? Why Avas 1 brought here ? 
Was it — could it be — for good.” I tiled to talk to her, but I could 


1-20 


BERENICE. 


think of no words tliat would not mock the situation. She broke 
the silence with words ominous of danger. 

“Be patient; bear vo nr cross as you have ever borne it. You 
will soon be free; IA^'iU trouble you but a short time.” 

“ Have I ever been impiatient with j’ou, or unmindful, in any way, 
of your kindness to me 

“ No, never; and this is why I would free you. You are too good 
to suffer all your life. And you Avill — I will be the blight, the incu- 
bus of your whole existence, if I do not prevent it. Clod has for- 
g(fften to release you from l^ondage. I wiU do it.” 

“ (lod never forgets, never forsakes us. This room makes every 
one melancholy.” 

“ The room I No, no; not the room! The doom ! Mine is sealed. 
I am to die !” 

“ This idea of death is fi-om our lonely life and this room. Why 
do you like to come here ?” 

“ I came here to fulfill a promise. You are to be rich ! This 
night I give up to y 9 u aU my possessions 1 May the gift not be like 
the diadem and robe that Medea gave to Creusa to be her shroud. 
May you have peace ! May heaven shower upon your head the 
Idessings I never had, as the Lady of Mount Marah.’’ 

I answered as calmly as 1 could: “ May you live to enjoy your 
wealth. Ah, you will ! And as no one wall escape with our treas- 
ures before morning, let us wait until then to talk of them. I must 
secure for you quiet, rest of mind and body in sleep.” 

“ You have desired to know^ something of your birth. I am pre- 
pared to teU you the whole story, sad as it is.” 

“ To-night I am not curious about my liistory, nor, indeed, about 
anything. I cannot say that I feel quite well.” 

She did not seem to heai* my last remarks, but kept peering into 
the further corner of the room. The old wraith had returned. 

“ I fear that woman, Ruth 1 She wall come,” she said, in a fright- 
ened w^a}^ with a shudder, her eyes staring at some object that, in 
her fancy, approached. 

“ I am here. No one can harm you,” answered I, wliile a mortal 
terror possessed me, as my trembling and paleness indicated. She 
Avent on: 

“ If you must knoAv the truth, Avhile ypu, my faitliful guardian, 
have slept, I have been out by the deep Avater again, stmggling 
AAvtli her.’’ 

My heai’t for an instant ceased its beatings. There could be no 
mistaking the expression of her eyes. To keep up a shoAv of courage, 

I replied: 

“ i\Iy dear friend, I too, dream of impossibilities, incongruities, noc- 


BEKENICE. 


121 


turnal wanderings, with all-powerful and compelling agents and mas- 
ters.” 

“You dream of this woman ! Never, never. She belongs to me 
and to my past. You may see in dreams misshapen forms and death- 
faces; but they are all about me, in the air, in my pathway. I can 
not live for them.” 

1 put my hands to my eyes to shut out the sight of her. She 
shouted in my ears until I appeared to listen : 

“ We had a dance in the woods — they and I. Fires blazed high, 
flames wreathed themselves through the trees, up to the very clouds, 
and burned and burned and roared like tempest winds, but never 
consumed! Ah, these are fearful fires that never consume. Yes; 
we danced on the open ground by their red light, and the woman 
wdth the fiery star in her forehead, led them. At last she saw me ! 
She grasped my A^udsts, Avhile other eA'il things pressed the hot band 
upon my head. She dragged me on through the dance; my feet 
dared not lag ; my limbs dared not falter. On, on, on ! At last I 
was alone Avith her. I saAv but a heap of ashes. By the Avan, sick 
light of the moon I saAv a ghastly crowd ! — and Tom, })oor Tom 1 
AVhat could liave brought him there Avith them ? The hideous 
grouj) ! She pointed Avith her skeleton finger at them. They will 
(;ome here ! Make the room lighter, Ruth. Light, fight, fight ! 
Darkness lures them in. See ! see ! There is yoiu’ mother ! AVhy 
does she come ?” 

“ Go to rest,” said I, pleadingly. “ We are both Aveary. Come,. 
Tuy dear, dear Mend. Come, for my sake, for the sake of one who 
loved Wiimefred.” 

She ansAA^ered: “ For your sake, my good child! my sacrifice! 
Jeptha’s daughter Avas not a more sublime one. What has come 
over me ? — I lose my own identity — my mind Avanders.” 

After pausing a moment or two, in a calm and calculating Avay she 
handed me a small key, telling me to open a draAver in the old 
esciitoire in the comer of the room, adding: 

“ That piece of furniture was never kept for its comeliness, Ruth. 
It is an old relic. You must keep it. It has an ingenious puzzle 
which I must shoAV you — a false paidition. Lift it in this Avay, by 
pressure. It Avorks easy. Keep Avhat e’er you find therein. Do 
])ut a shoAv of interest in that quiet face of 3"ours.’^ 

“ I cannot. I aaIII be interested in all you desire to-morroAv.’’ 

She froAvned upon me, saying in a j^eremptory tone : 

“ You think to pacify me as you wovild a wayAvard child, cheating* 
me by putting oft' Avhat you never intend to do. You dare not treat 
me thus.” 

I attempted to comply. Long sufteiing Avears one’s courage fine 
as thread, but our patience increases to meet the drain and draw 
8 


122 


BERENICE. 


upon it. The scene in the summer, in the garden, found me brave 
enough to dare the danger that would have appalled a Semiramis; 
but then I was happy, for but one hour ere I had ^u’estled with the 
distorted monster. Madness ! I had heard a sweet story. Sorrow 
had crushed my spiiit since that night. Life might be the stake 
now, yet I could not rouse me to aveid the danger. My hands 
trembled in futile attempts to unlock the drawer. She wrested the 
keys impatiently from me. Her cold, damp lingers touched mine. 
She opened the drawers, one after another, until, at last, she found the 
object of her search — a sealed package. Handing it to me, she 
said: 

“ The will ! Mine 1 For you !’’ glancing the while round the 
room, as if she were committing a theft. Lower, to a whisper, hei' 
voice fell: Hide it awa^^; they want to wrong you of the last and 

best one.^’ 

She then drew from one of the drawers a crimson velvet case. I 
imagined it contained valued jewels; perhaps a bridal gift or a gage 
d. amour of an earlier day. She held it under the folds of her di’ess, 
giving, at the moment, one of her wild, searching glances around 
the room. For an instant a vacant look, lacking recognition rested 
upon my face. But witli the magic power given to the voice I again 
grasped the key to the darkening chamber of the soul. Her eyes 
answered mine, plain as words: 

“ I know you. You are my own Ruth.’' 

She became passive: willing to be led from the room lo her own. 
When the door closed upon us I felt relieved. Slie commenced dis- 
robing for the night in a stiU, drear way. Only for lier eyes I would 
have Husted her quiet demeanor. She laid the case on the marble 
of the bureau. With the movement her glance was directed to me. 
Appearing to note nothing of her actions, while her face was averted, 
I took anxious note of them. The large mirror reflected her dis- 
tinctly, giving me a sight, besides that of the mysteiious case of 
jewels, a face, so white ! I can never forget it — so appalling ! She 
dallied away time at the muTor, altering the arrangement of hei' 
hair, and practicing other subterfuges to lull my suspicions. The 
delay, while it kept me in terror, gave me a chance to think. Could 
they be jewels? What ones? Her childish fondness for ornament 
led her, in our intercourse of the last months, to show me every art- 
icle of the kind she possessed. Among them I knew I had never 
seen this bright, fresh-looking scarlet case. Hoarded up so sa- 
credH; how valuable, how prized they must be ! Were they to be 
mine ? Mdiile I was ruminating she had evidently forgotten my 
presence, while her thoughts were centering on a fearful purpose. 
She was rigid, cold and white. Her attitude, perfect and resigned 
misery. The expression that wavering and struggling reason gives 


BERENICE. 


123 


the human face is one that we can never either describe or forget. 
She glanced wildl}" around the room. I believe she thought herself 
alone. She opened the case. I drew near to get a sight of its con- 
tents. The mirror was my aid — was a faithful exi)onent. In the 
treasure-trove, plain, fitting snugly in their velvet nests, as a nut in 
its shell, I saw glittering, flashing steel. To move now was impos- 
sible; my life was in peril. There was little time to think. In a 
second she placed her hand upon one, giving at the moment that 
indescribalde, mania(;al glare at me. The sight of the weapons had 
urged her on. I knew that her purpose was fatal to me. Who or 
Avhat she thought me to be, was a question. One effort for life I 
must make ! Death woidd l)e welcome, but not in this waj". Oh, 
no ! I had a sane woman’s hoiTor of weapons and blood. By a 
strong effort I roused myself to action. In an instant I was by her 
side. Before she was prepared to resist, I grasped the case with a 
quick movement, by which one of the deadly instruments was se- 
cured. The other being already in her liand, I had to abide the as- 
saidt, which my movement and Avords had hastened. 

“Woiimii,” said 1, in a defiant wav, “what are voii about to 

dor 

She did not (50inprehend me, nor recognize me. Not the faint- 
<ist link held her world with mine. Every gleam, every shadow 
of memory liad left her. Twould have daunted a braver heart 
than ndne to behold her with the blade of the razor in her grasp 
and to feel assured of the result, that the fingers were actually 
becoming severed. The blood trickling on the floor. She ap- 
proached. 1 stepped back, trying to keep her at bay with my 
fixed eye. Preparing to defend myself, or to evade the weapon ; 
or the better way than either, to escape from the room. All 
hopes of saving her from herself had left me. AVith the strength 
that madness gives, what could I, in my weak frame offer to com- 
bat it. Nearer and nearer she came, actually pursuing me. No 
friendly door could I reach. A long, fearful scream came invol- 
untarily to my lips. Death was a certainty, had not an electric 
thought passed through my brain ; to throw the pitcher of water 
standing near suddenly into her face, as she approached. I 
gained by it one moment’s time. The shock arrested her pro- 
gress ; she stood to gasp for breath. The door suddenly opened ; 
Dr. Moore entered, followed b^' Berenice ; I was saved ; I owed 
my final preservation to my enemies. At the shock, reason 
came back to her as a sudden ray breaking upon darkness. She 
stood before them in a fearful phase of insanity. 

^dn the future slie will have other keepers than Ruth AVard,” 
said Berenice. 

Of course the package with the will, in my fuA'or, was never 


124 


BERENICE. 


thought of. 1 had a low estimate of wealth, or auythiug that 
represented it, and had I been ever so far-seeing, my soul wa.s 
absorbed in one theme. Her condition was the only interest. 1 
thought not of pecuniary results growing out of it. I shrank 
appalled at the fearful contemplation of her fate ! Measures 
were to be taken for her removal. The very same night every 
thing was decided upon. 

“If she was poor,’’ soliloquized Zillah, after giving her informa- 
tion, “it would be well to pack her off, but to send her out of her 
own lands, where she was born, and her people before her, and 
when there’s enough of us to keep her, and a big place which 
could be constructed secure when she got wild, because that 
wild way don’t last long. I’m sure she’s like a baby now, and 
with that hand, too ! Ain’t her lingers off entirely F 

“I could not look at them, Zillah,” I replied, “and I fear to ask 
to know the worst. As you say, Zillah, she will have lucid inter- 
vals, and during them what Avill become of her '? She has had 
me to look to so long.” 

“Yes, so long and so faithful.” 

“Why should I not follow her and stay to the end of life ? It 
can’t be very far.” 

“See here, Miss Ruth, you don’t know how long i)eople live 
when they ain’t wanted to live, and is in the way of fortune. 
She might keep you there till you went crazy, too. Because 
there every one is that waj’, and we wiil incline always the way 
things lean around us.’’ 

The remarks were not too subtle for my penetration ; they ex- 
emplified the constant dw'elling upon one theme, its reprehensi- 
bility and its pernicious effects upon the mind. From Zillah I 
discovered that she was to be removed from the house by strategem, 
a way justified by usage, but surely not by anything else. Common 
sense would point a w^arning in considering the increased mental 
depression and disquietude ensuing after disappointment; a con- 
sequent of the deceptive method of removing patients to institu- 
tions of the kind. And, as Zillah says, in her owui way : 

“If a person has sense enough to be willing and glad to go in a 
caniage to some desirable place, the sense ought to be turned to 
account in the way of i^er suasion.’’ 

I might now have left the scene of my sorrow^s to go out in the 
world, but in her lucid intervals she w^ould pine for “ Ruth.” I 
plead with aU my soul for her. I besought them not to send her 
aw'ay. I asked for the responsibility of keepmg her without any 
other aid, but they refused, coldly, decidedly. 

Berenice said: “ No, it cannot be; none of us are safe. I long 
for her departure.” 


BERENICE. 


125 


ZiUali miglit have had foresight that entire adherence to Berenice 
might he detrimental, if not fatal, to her future interests. Ruth 
Ward was, plainly, prospective heir of the lady of Mount Marah. 
Wh}^ not seek her favor, even at this late hour, bj attending to Mrs. 
Gault ? If nothing else were gained, she would, at least, receive 
some token of having once been her slave. Besides this, she saw 
now what was not plain before. In the tragedy of her father’s 
death her mistress was free from blame. Rudolph Gault, the father 
of Berenice, was directly, by his indifference and neglect, the cause 
of Tom’s death. She told me, in her own phraseology, that a sud- 
den and unaccountable revolution of feeling possessed her. She 
knew she had been wrong in hating her kind and gentle mistress. 
Remorse had come in place of revenge. So Zillah became useful to 
us in the latter days of our sorrow; but her greatest fault was her 
disposition to talk to Mrs. Gault of everything that transpired con- 
cerning her future fate. 

“ The last of the Aubreys is to d^e in a madhouse,” said she to 
me when Zillah had been left a few moments alone with her. 

“ Not if I can save you, you shall not,” answered I. 

“I wiU not live to reach one, Ruth; do not fear.” 

Since pleading would not avail, reckless of consequences, I be- 
came plain in my remarks: 

“ Why send her to strange places when the house is spacious. It 
admits of monopoly and seclusion in its parts. She need never be seen 
by any one but me. I’ve read of patients being kept for a life time. 
She shall not trouble a member of the household. You cannot re- 
fuse a refuge in her own home. Her dread of leaving me is in- 
tense. Her condition Avill be all the more hopeless by the change.’’ 

Dr. Moore left us to the war of words, as Berenice replied, sar- 
casticall}^ : 

“ I thought the home and lands of the Aubreys yours.” 

“The world shall know how lightly I hold wealth; it shall not be- 
lieve your misrepresentations. I will refute them.’’ 

“You are magnanimous. We will believe that you would keep a 
mad woman in the house for an abstract good. Your pretext for 
being here is a shallow one.’’ 

After her death I wiU not trouble you.” 

“ She shaU not die here, unless it be very shortly; not even to 
please you. Her injuries may save a useless discussion. Dr. Moore 
thinks that they wiU.’’ 

“ Dr. Wyatt may save her. I knew she was very ill. I have sent 
for him.” 

“ Dr. Moore is an able physician. You underrate and insult him.’’ 

“ This is, indeed, an idle play of words about Dr. Moore’s skill.’’ 

“ Mrs. Moore, nothing can deter me from urging my request to 


12G 


BERENICE. 


your husband, in presence of a friend. It is the last 1 shall ever 
make of you or him. Think of it seriously. What will people say ? 
AVhat inference may be drawn ? You send her off to die without 
any recognizable effort to keep her here. The}' may hint that her 
death, speedy and obscure, was to your interest.” 

“ To your interest, you mean. You are her heir. I have nothing 
to gain: you have.” 

“ Desiring to spare you, I did not teU you of rumors that are rife. 
The Gault children dying prematurely, with disease that baffled 
medical skill to even name, has created suspicion. Winnie is known 
to have died similarly to persons put out of the way by the slow, in- 
sidious poisons that the Medici understood so well how to admin- 
ister. My devotion to the child, and subsequently to the mother, 
my moral stamina, if I must become egotistical, my affections pre- 
dominating over my passions and holding them in abeyance. As a 
saber, unsheathed, pointed to the heart would forbid our advance 
upon the blade, so am I kept from evil by the good holding me back 
when temptation di'aws me on. ‘ No one would suspect me. You 
are in danger. You comprehend why I thought it necessary to send 
for Dr. Wyatt, and also to endeavor to keep her at Mount Marah and 
save her.” 

A hvid, ashen, guilty face was turned to mine, but with an effbit 
to apjiear unconcerned she resumed the conversation : 

“ Wliat have I to do with inmors ? It has long been well known 
that I am cut off without even the proverbial shilhng; — one of the 
consequences of your visitation at Mount Marah, you little, sharp- 
toothed rat, boring and boring everywhere where there are sweets, 
stealing away our treasures. Take care, retribution viill come to you. 
Save yourself from suspicion.’^ 

“ Pray whose interest is involved in Mrs. Gault’s demis^ — ^}'Ours 
or mine ?” 

“ Long ago I disclaimed aU right to inherit the Aubrey estate. I 
have done so repeatedly to Mr. Ethel. 

“You dare utter his name to me !” 

“ I spoke of him as one who could prove the truth of my assevera- 
tions. Contrary to his advice, I have persistently declined to have 
anything to do with Mrs. Gault’s wealth.’^ 

“ And therefore he abandoned you. He wanted not Ruth Ward, 
}ks I could have told you, but her inheritance.” 

“ I would not have believed you had you accused him of anything 
that was not noble.” 

Mrs. Gault was sinking rapidly. She called me to her bedside to 
speak of a will in Dr. Wyatt’s possession. Zillah was near, though 
she did not appear to be listening. 


BERENICE. 


127 


“ Send her out of the room,” said Mrs. Gault. False to one she 
has always served, she will not be true now to us.‘^ 

ZiUah had heard her remark and immediately left the room. She 
asked anxiously in a hurried, nervous way: 

“ AVhen will Dr. Wyatt be here ? I want to speak to him. I must 
see him. I am much weaker this morning.” 

“ In a few moments we may exj^ect him,” I replied. 

“Ah, I can not wait. The jewels are for Berenice, except the 
opals; they are yours. Her father never saw me in them; they were 
a lover’s gift, before I met him. You know who he was? Contest 
the ownership of the Aubrey estate with Berenice to the last mo- 
ment of your life.” 

“ Spare me this. I have no right to the property*; Berenice has.” 

“ Oh, don't say that.” 

“ I must say it. I know it. Dr. Wyatt came too late to save her. 
They would consign me to a mad-house. I suppose it was right. 
But God has saved me.” 

“ God is most merciful.” 

“ Have I your promise ?” 

“ If it will make you happy I consent.'' 

“ Oh, Ruth, it is night.” 

“No; but the room is darkened.” 

“ My sight fails. Stoop, darhng. Let me look once more into the 
eyes that were always kind.” 

Dr. Wyatt came. She seemed to gain strength for a few moments. 

“ Ruth sent for you; 'tis well. I wanted to ask you to forgive me. 
You will ? Think how I have lived and how I must die.” 

“Long ago I forgave you. More than this; I pitied and justified 
you. You ^vere but a poor weak girl, among those old in years and 
seared in sin.” 

“ Bless you, George, for thinking of me in this way. Thank God, 

I have lived to hear you pity me. One thing more : take care of 
Ruth.” 

“ I mil.’' 

“ I ask no more. Good bye. I ” 

“. Victorine !’' 

He hstened with breathless anxiety for the rest; but she spoke no 
more. They laid the last of the Aubreys in the tomb. Poor old 
Isaac had not a Mend in the world. He stood with bent and wasted 
form, where he had with sad interest often watched the trowel, 
moving so deftly as the w^ork went on, as now when the last tie of 
earth was broken. Strangers standing round whispered that the 
family physician took her death very hard. 

“ Family physician, indeed ! AVhy they knew each other fro in 


128 


BERENICE. 


childhood. There was an engagement between them, but she went 
to Pai-is with her father and broke it off.’^ 

“ The Widow Gault was a beauty in her day, I tell you. The 
doctor, too, was the finest looking young fellow in the country.’^ 

“ The story goes that she never loved Gault.” 

“That’s neither here nor there; she married him. As you make 
your bed so you must lie.” 

“Well, who said against it? As she made her bed she did lie. 
Didn’t he try hard enough to get her after Gault’s death ?” 

“Try to get a crazy woman ? AVhat a fool!” 


CHAPTEK VI. 


EXTKACTS FROM RUTH’s JOURNAL. 

‘‘ Want a cab, miss T 

It did not avail that I drew my furs closer about me ; the coldness 
was in my heart. Still on and on I went through the woods, where 
AVinnefred and I had often passed the long, tiresome days. The 
tall pines sighed their mournful symphony, mingling with the 
roar of the nver. The rustling of the falling leaves, the fright- 
ened birds, with their shiiU plaints, mingling with the sighing and 
soughing of the wind, seemed voices of warning — the dirge of hope — 
the setting in of the long winter of the heart. 

The river had, for some time past, been high and turbulent; 
making incursions on the land. Minute lakes, with green islands 
looming up within them, had been created. Slender spiral reeds 
and feathery grass of sudden growth, that had shot upward 
through the shallow waves, were already withered and blackened 
by the early frost. The bright flowers which Winnie loved 
bloomed by the dark stream where Mrs. Gault, in her madness, 
longed to rest. Ah, thought I, Lethe were better found in a 
greater stream. You river, in its restlessness, sings of rest. 
Pushing and dashing, moaning aud sighing, as it hurries away ; 
on, ever on. 

‘‘A plunge into this ; 1 shall be free,” I exclaimed, whil e the 
distant echo gave back the word, mockingly — “Free!” 

Free! How I had prayed once for freedom. I was, in the 
fullest sense of the word, free, for no one would shed a tear or 
spend an uneasy moment if I were floating with my white, dead 
face upward on the wild, angry waves. My heart in its deso- 
lateness asked, in the going out of the tide of life, may we not 
choose the hour for our rest ? God is merciful; yet, in a moment 
when the overtasked heart succumbs to sorrow; when its lagging- 
pulse beats no more responsive to the loves and interests which 
once enthralled it ; when the lagging ijulse is at its lowest ebb ; 
when neither God nor man, hope of Heaven nor dread of hell 
can quicken it to fuller flow; if then the wretched one assume a 
power not assigned to man, he is lost. Can this be mercy ! I 


BERENICE. 


lao 

had never betore questioned truths whose Yevelations can not bo 
read by our earthly vision. With blind and God-reposing trust 
I had said: All things God ordained are right. The sin was in 
an hour when, outcast, unloved and forsaken, I went forth into 
the world of which I knew but little. What 1 knew only tended 
to make the change in my life’s routine more appalling. Yet I 
did not regret Mount Marah. 1 loved nothing within it now but 
Nature, the streams, the birds, the mother-robins, from which 1 
had drawn my conclusions of the woduer-world, which 1 was des- 
tined never to behold. All my life I have stood yearning at the 
gate barred against me. Straining my eager eyes with sicken- 
ing expectation, and yet not one has answered. Only in dreams- 
have I seen my mother. Homeward, from the woods 1 turned. 
Homeward ! I had realized in a thousand ways that I had no 
home. It was dark when I entered the house. I gladly escaped 
from the sight of Mrs. Moore. Opening a volume upon the table 
in my room, a passage, applicable to my misery, attracted my 
attention : 

“ ‘ There will gleam upon you over the waste of rolling years a 
memory that quickens again the bolder and nobler instincts of the 
heart.’ ” 

i closed the book, to brood over the promise, striving, in looking- 
backward, to find the blest, the magical one — I had in my chequered 
life treasured one memory, that had become to me as the face of a 
corpse — the corpse of one beloved. I had gazed upon the sealed, 
immobile', unanswering horror, to find all trace of what I had loved 
gone. Now, I would hide it from myself, bury it with ]Mount 
Marah’s wTaiths. My life was to be henceforth a struggle for bread. 
Would I have strength to fight the battle ? Were peace and obliv- 
ion to be offered on every side, in every deej) river, in mystic, mi- 
nute j^articles, trilles, impalpable as air, that soothe pain, that bring 
elysium and end in death, and I not avail myself of the relief V Ii i 
my precious volume are words of warning: ‘ Ijive ! Take life as it 
comes, as other wretched ones have done, and will do, while the 
Avorld lasts. In faithfulness and meekness, bear thou the cross.’ ” 

With high resolves I left Blount Marah and its sorrows. Not an 
adieu, except from Uncle Isaac ! Homeless, wretched, launched 
upon the world ! 1 sought Dr. Wyatt for guidance. Unforiunately 

his first looks and words jarred upon me: 

“ Ruth ! from Mount Marah, and alone !” he exclaimed; adding, in 
tone of rebuke, which saved me from a display of wounded feeling, 
by putting me upon the defensive as to my movements: 

“ Why did you not apprize me of your coming 

“ Alone !’’ answered I, bravely, the tears all dried at the proper 


BERENICE. 


131 


moment. “ Is that a very great venture ? Isaac took me to the cars. 
What had I to do but to keep my seat until they stopped 

He answered kindly, regretting his abru2:)tness, I imagine : 

“ The arrival is the objectionable paid. It looks neglectful, Ruth, 
that one so young and so passable should be without a friend to 
meet her at her place of destination. Yours may be considered an 
isolated case — a young lady traveling and meeting no esc.ort. No 
one has annoyed you, I hope ?” 

“ Oh, yes ! the cabmen gathered round me, and screamed out to 
my astonishment and perplexity, ‘ AVant a cab, miss ? ’ and then an- 
other would come up in breathless haste, saying, excitedly, ‘ Here’s, 
my cab, miss,’ and others would scream, ‘ Come this way,’ and an- 
other would call me another way, until they bewildered me. I could 
not telL-whose cab to take, for fear of offending all the rest. At last 
I selected the smallest in stature, questioned him as to your abiding 
place. He knew all about it. I took a seat in the cab, and here 1 
am.” 

“ Confound them ! they are troublesome to novices in traveling. 
Y’^ou must learn how to say no, and say it in earnest, too, that they 
may know you mean it.” 

“ I will set about studying the knack right away.” 

“ But yet the more impoidant lesson concerning that little word is, 
never to say it when you mean yes.’’ 

“ I will remember your counsel. Doctor. I appreciate your judg- 
ment in all matters so higlily that I have come here to-day to ask 
you to direct me through my troubles.” 

“ I will, if you will promise not to lead, while I am asked to do so. 
People often seek advice — especially your sex — which they never 
intend to follow. They ask one’s ojiinion, they ignore it even while 
’tis being given. Excuse me — recent (occurrences make me sensitive 
on this jooint. They have no connection with you, however. What 
do you desire ? Had you known my intentions you need not have 
come. I intended to visit you to-morrow. I have business at Mount 
Marah — urgent business that cannot be longer delayed.” 

“ Had I known this, I should have waited. I am about to leave 
Mount Marah, and to speak to you of this step, I have come here 
to-day.” 

“ AVhere are you going ?” 

“ I have not decided, as yet.” 

“AVho is to decide it ? ” 

“Y'ou^ — Fate — or myself- — or all. Unfortunately, the universe is 
too large; if it were only a millionth paid of what it is, I should not 
be so puzzled to choose.” 

“ You tall^ like some moneyed cosmopolitan, with whom ’twere a 
question i.>lng altogether with liimself whether he should climb the 


132 


BEEENICE. 


Hindoo Koosli, sail over the Polar Sea, or make a voyage round the 
earth. AVhat sudden resolve is this ? Are you not content to remain 
a little longer with Mrs. Moore ? ” 

“ No; nor has she any wish that I should do so. Indeed, Doctor, 
this is the only point upon wiiich we agree.’’ 

“ Pshaw ! bear with each other for awhile. There will be a day, 
not far off, perhaps, when the idea of your being separated may be 
carried out with a feasibility, wiiich now, I do not exactly see.” 

“ I am sorry to disturb your plans, but I will not stay there. Bere- 
nice never liked me. By her cruelty to me, ever since my childhood, 
I almost hate her. The feeling grows with the years we have spent 
under the same roof. She has told me, too, to leave Mount Marah.’’ 

“Preposterous ! Does she not realize that you could, with more 
justice, give out the mandate ? She hasn’t an acre of the Aubrey 
lands. They are yours.’’ 

His triumphant expression changed in a moment. 

“ I meant to tell you to-day that the w ill is not in my j^ossession. 
IVIrs. Gault gave it to me in one of her frenzied moods. I, in m3' 
trepidation that fearful night, lost it or threw it aw^a}'. I never saw 
it since.’’ 

“ Careless — reckless; if all 3'our proceedings inmone}' matters are 
as erratic as this, 3^ou are not w'orihv of 3'Our fortune. Think how' 
much good 3'ou might do with it. What remarks did she make wiien 
she gave 3’ou the will ? ” 

“ Onl}" that it w'as the last and the best.’’ 

“ Last and best, he}" ?” 

“You know she had made others previous to that.” 

“ I know", and happen to have them in my possession.” 

“ Indeed ! You have another and a better w ill ?” 

“ Is that fact so strange ? Not so strange as Yictorine Aubre}'’s 

marr3ing that foreign ex . WTiat she saw in the old toredo to 

love, or even tolerate, no one ever knew'. He w'as a scholar, to be 
sure, but then he w as a misanthrope, caring for nothing but his 
books and pictures. I believe he often, in them, forgot he ever 
lived.” 

“Ah ! the sex ! The less hold the}" have uj)on us, the better 
they like us. Notice through hfe a poor, doting fool has no chance 
of kind treatment. They take no jiains to keep what they cannot 
lose. But fortunately the w'ill you lost is a w'orthless one. Never 
mind what Yictorine said. The last is not the best.” 

“ Suppose the lost one to have been made when her mind w'as in 
an irresponsible state ? It w'ould not be of any w’orth ?” 

“ That will be the trouble w'itli others. When there is an interest 
involved in making a legator insane, it is hard to prove them not so, 
and it seems that before there w ere any symptoms of this kind she 


BERENICE. 


133 


was foredoomed h\ lier enemies. She had a clear view of their in- 
tentions, in lier last moments, and exacted my promise to contest 
any snit they might institute, to the end of j^our life, if the struggle 
could be so prolonged.^’ 

“ The greatest injustice Mrs. Gault ever did to any one. Oh, it 
was cruel ! cruel !’’ 

“ Giving you every dollar she possessed in the world, and fearing 
you wouldn’t have determination to tight for yoim light ? She held 
you bound to do so. Was that unjust ? She was a noble, magnan- 
imous woman ! Though she treated me badlv, I must speak the 
truth.” 

“ I can not look at it as you do. She gave me what was always a 
curse to its owners. She said it had ever been so. I did not want 
it; she was assured of that. I felt conscientious about taking Avhat 
belonged, in the natural course of circumstances, to her step-daugh- 
ter. She bound me. Where can I go, now ? Will you assume the 
responsibility of settling the matter mth Mrs. Moore ? For this pur- 
pose I came to you. I beseech you, release me forever from the 
incubus of the Aubrey estate.^^ 

“ Did you ever speak to Mrs. Gault concerning your aversion to 
being her heir ?’’ 

“No; since I come think of it, I did not. I was advised by Mr. 
Ethel not to make any objection to her kindness towards me.” 

“You are truly an idiosyncracy. The wonder of the world ! — of 
ages, past and present, and wRl be, if you do not change, of those 
to come. Not want the Aubrey estate ! Not want a quarter of a 
million ! In the name of the Holy Grail, what do you want V What 
do you proiiose doing ? You have no home, no relatives, no ties; 
yet you scorn the means of procuring you all of these. There is 
nothing in the world which man craves that can not be bought — a 
sweeping assertion, but I am responsible for it. Recollect, what it 
means, this money. Comprehend the value of doUars and cents.” 

“ Some persons are born Avithout the faculty. It ma}^ be, in this 
money-making world, a calamity. I for one never will care for 
mone}^” 

“ Oh, you ! I expect every moment to miss you from my side. 
You Avill have dissolved into the blue ether, gone into some spiritual 
arcana of the higher Heavens, Avhile I shall be obhged to persuade 
myself that I never knew such a person as Ruth Ward : she is a mere 
m^dh — a dream !’’ 

“You are sarcastic rather than comphmentary, doctor. But 
speaking of di-eams, I have a strange one, recurring persistently. 1 
dream that they poisoned poor Wimiie. It is so real to me that I 
(*an scarce tell when I aw^ake Avhether it is not revelation.” 


BERENICE. 


184 . 


His eyes were cast upon me very earnestly for a moment; but I 
baffled his scrutiny. He replied: 

“ When people commit crimes of this calibre, there must be pow- 
erful incentives. What persons could tliere be haviu" reasons to 
seek the life of a child 

“ It was only a dream.’* 

“ You have a deeper meaning. The uudesignated plurality of 
X)ersons may be two and it might be forty.” 

“ Two would approach the suspected or dreamed of number.’’ 

“ I comprehend you. There would be nothing gained by bringing 
up such a charge, and a great deal lost. Let us hope, for the credit 
of humanity, there never ^Vere such monsters at Mount Marah. 
Perhaps poor Yictorine’s words were not ra^ings. MTio will know 
whether or not ?” 

“ The servants speak of it openly." 

“ Y"ou believe this story, Buth ? And yet you would resign the 
properfy for which possession the crime was })erpetrated V You 
woiild, by such a course, prove your love for the dead ? I tell you. 
they would rise from the tomb to remonstrate with you for the faith- 
lessness of your trust,” 

“ I shall not tell you what I think. There are no more unfortu- 
nates to jnit out of the way, unless yourself. Is that what you 
fear V But I forgot. You fear nothing but heirship.” 

“ That is all. I have designed a way to get out of my dependent 
life. You will aid me ? I can sing a little, and I miglit effect an 
engagement as a second-rate vocalist, until I shffll liave tested my 
abilities — or rather, until the public has done so.” 

“ Yours is no common undertaking. You have, however, a fine 
voice, a very fine one., I hear of it frequently. iMr. Ethel — who 
never forget to savor his discourses, whenever he called upon me, 
mth Buth’s meiits — spoke to me of your musical talent.” 

Did he observe my i)allor when a name came up, unexpectedly? 
I had thought myself free. We never know ourselves in life, and 
if we could read our obituaiaes truly, we Avouldn’t then. 

“ I scan the situation at a glance,” said Dr. Wyatt. “ You are 
very miserable, very ambitious, very restless. You have brought 
upon yourself aU your trouble. Don’t give that astonished gaze. 
Have me Bom the glance of indignation that will foUow it. Let me 
have my say. Y^ou have an artistic love of art. There is a buzzing 
in the great world, among the flashing and gilded ™igs of the sing- 
ing birds ! It di’aws you out among them. You would prefer it to 
sipping aml)rosia with the gods. You forfeit love to accomplish this 
end. You have made the grand passion subservient to a meaner 
<’>ne — aml)ition.” 

“ How know you tliis ?” 


BERENICE. RI5 

“ I know why you sent Ethel away, a sad and melancholy man. 
You know it, too, by this time.’’ 

“ Not for ambition. You wroii" me by the thought. I had given 
up all idea of a lu'ofession. I will be be candid. I expetded to be 
Mr. Ethel s wife. An insinuation made by Mrs. Gault altered our 
relationship. I doubted the love he proffered. I own my en-or and 
<leeply deplore it.’’ 

“ AYoidd you recall him, now T 

“ Never ! Love is past. I live for another sphere, mid am un- 
titted tor the quiet routine of wifehood.” 

“ Tliiuk before it is too late. In your new life you blot out your 
sweet pastoral name, and ^Gth it your noblest attiibutes. I would 
liave remembered you to my death as the Ruth of Mount Marah, 
Avith her red-brown liair, parted, like Raphael’s pictures, upon the 
most serene broAv — Ruth, with eyes so combined in their expression, 
that Ave can not decide Avhich predominates, the fire of genius, or the 
the soft, pleading love of the Avoinan. HoAvever, go on, I aaIII not 
prevent. I am your guardian, but not a straAv Avill I lay in youi- 
way. It may be, that Avhat I Avould choose for you Avould not make 
you happy — not Avith the fiery drop in your veins. Blood avlII tell. 
It inoculates generations.” 

“Explain Avhat a'ou Inm? just asseided, Doctor. Who and what 
ami?” 

“ In a little time I AviU. You have reidly and forniallv left Mount 
Marah ?” 

“ I have. To-day I visit the asylum to see Sister Barbara. I will 
then spend a short time Artth Grace. She frequently urged me to 
do so. During my stay I Avill be looking anxiou.sly for Avhat may be 
<*ontrtbutive to my future projects.” 

“ Y'our coming Avas premature. We Avill return together to Ber- 
enice. A^ou Avere not cognizant of the fact to be told — the oiiening 
of the aaIU. You must be present by all means. A curious study it 
aaIU be ; you, Avith your supreme indifference, hearing of your good 
fortune — the heirship — for which the others Avould sell then.' souls, 
their rage and disapj^ointment at defeat, and my exultation.’’ 

“ I wish I could be spared my part in it.” 

“ You (!an not; but after the Ausit Ave wiU have an opportunity to 
arrange plans for your future, if you stiff persist in your determina- 
tion, for Avhich there will be no necessity, in a pecuniary Auew; Mrs. 
Gault has amply jjrovided for you. My advice is given. Will you 
abide by it?” 

“ Certainly. I will do anytliing that you direct me to do, but to 
give uj) my chief aim, which is w ork. You say Ave shall go to Mount 
Marah. Caff at the Pierrepont’s for me, if you please. I avuII be 
ready.” 


BERENICE. 


13 () 

He pressed my hand, looking upon me as if he thought me a fool- 
ish, misguided girl, saying to me in a playful way: 

“ All, Ruth Ward, you are not the meek lamh I once believed you 
to be, that one could lead by a silken libboii. You may regTet the 
step 3 ou are about to take, but j^ou shall not 3'et, not if I can over- 
rule j our stubborn will. Think of another hfe —the prettj', (piiet, 
matron, vdie and mother. These are the true glories of woman.” 

“ Never, never ! — a wife ! I’d rather die a thousand times !” 

“ You belong, then, to the fallen angels, who lost Heaven thi’ough 
ambition ? ” 


CHAPTER VII. 


THE WILL AND THE VEILED LADY. 

EXTEACTS FKOM EDTh’s JOURNAL. 

“Why are you so silent and moody/^ asked Dr. Wyatt, during our 
trip to Mount Marah.’ 

“ Letters which I received a day before from Eunice, kept me 
thinking of them contents,” answered I. 

“ From the httle French girl who was with you at the Asylum ? 

“ Do you know that she is French, Doctor?” asked I, not liking* 
the term “ French girl.” 

“No one could be mistaken as to her nationality. She is either 
French or Italian.” 

“ Pray wdiere did you get a sight of her ? ” 

“ The day she left the city, I met her. She was making inquiry 
for you. You seem to take offense at my speaking of her in a 
familiar way. Let me propitiate you by giving you my thoughts of 
her.” 

“ Well, do so; what do you think of her ? ” 

“ Were I young I would have followed her to the end of the 
world, if only to look occasionally at her beautiful face. Are we 
friends ? ” 

“ The best. Anything said in favor of Eunice quickens the good 
veins of my heart.” 

“ Yours are aU good.” 

“ And yet you find lurking within them the worst passions. Pride, 
that caused an angels fall, Ambition, which finds no means too grov- 
eling to attain its end. Yesterday I was, you said, proud and ambi- 
tious. Aly memory is uncompromisingly retentive, Doctor.” 

“ I do believe that ‘ what thou would’st higlily that would’st thou 
holily.’ You could not be di*awn by love, pride, or ambition to do 
wrong.” 

“ If Twere not for the motion of the cars, I would make my best 
courtesy. How far the evil influence of IMount Marah has been corro- 
dent upon my better nature, I know^ not. I fear it has eaten deep, 
taken away much of the good.” 

9 


188 


BEEENICE. 


“Your lieart refuses pity for the wretched? Ah, no! Your sacrifice 
of the best of your youth proves you no ordinary woman/’ 

“ You think better of me than those whom I served.” 

“We are now one mile from Mount Marah. To-morrow by the 
midday train we shall be able to return, iMy eri’and will be accom- 
phshed. If they take what is to come good-naturedly, and show no 
cloven foot, it will surprise me. The rest of the time on our hands 
I will devote to planning out for you, or wdth you, the future. I may 
not coincide entirely with your views, but in any consistent 
project you may be assured of my aid.” 

Dr. Moore and lady received us both very coldly. For want of 
witnesses who were expected, the opening of the will was deferred 
until morning. I retired early to ponder upon the letters of Emiice. 
I read them over and over. 

The ordeal of the reading of the whl was painful to contemplate. 
Dr. Wyatt was persistent in having me present. He led me to the 
hbrary where Dr. Moore and Berenice awaited proceedings. The 
sealed, self-important packet was produced. Dr. Wyatt’s was the 
only tranquil face. The lawyer, summoned for the occasion, read in 
a peculiarly clear voice, every syllable rounded out to its full im- 
portance. 

“the WmL OF VICTORINE GAULT, NEE AUBIUSY. 

“ In sound mind, etc. I do hereby bequeath to Berenice, the 
child of mv Inisband, Rudolph Gault, the only issue of his liaison 
with ** * * * 

my earthly jDOssessions, including ” — (Here was a lengthy descrip- 
tion of property ). 

He was intemipted, while reading, b}’ Berenice, who had arisen, 
and was regarding Dr. Wyatt with the desperate look of a hunted 
tigress. 

“ Stop, sir !” said she to the la'w^^er, imperatively. Tliat -svdll is a 
fabrication. My father was mariied to a Spanish lady befo re he 
met Miss Aubrey. I am the only issue of his first marriage.” 

“ Further proceedings would be useless, if this be true. You are 
not tlie person mentioned herein. Y^our own words deprive you of 
the benefits of this document.” 

Astonishment and perplexity were shown in her face. She glanced 
towards Dr. Moore. No helj) coming from that source, the war of 
words was left to herself. 

“ The ravings of a maniac are to be held as authority for my 
origin ? I protest against it. Had I been the child of shame, would 
Viotorine Aubrey, proud as she was, have brought me from Europe, 
treated me with the deference due to honorable birth ? Never! A 
malicious lie has been fabricated by my enemies.” 


BERENICE. 


1S9 


“‘You avow yourself not Berenice, who is named herein?” said 
the lawyer, drily. 

‘‘Ido emphatically deny that I am.^’ 

“ The will is void. YVe must seek elsewhere the heir of the 
Aubrey estate.” 

“ This is a plot of yours, Dr. Wyatt.’’ ^ 

“ You pull the pillars from your house, madame, and then blame 
me for the fall.” 

“ I am the person to wliom this property is bequeathed, but it 
does not follow that I am the issue of unlawful connectinn. I re- 
tract my accusation against you. I sj)oke withoift reflection. This 
^dil w“as executed in one of her wilful and malicious moods. She 
was not always a responsible being, you are well aware.’’ 

“ Nevertheless, your identity must be established. The circum- 
stances attending your Hfe from its beginning miLst correspond with 
the testator’s statement.’^ 

Dr. Moore was heard for the first time. 

“ Surely my wife is the only representative of the Gaults ?” 

“ This is the Aubrey estate, Doctor. The Gaults never owned an 
acre of it,” repHed Dr. YVyatt. 

“ A sheer waste of time, this morning’s work. You are deter- 
mined, sir, that my wife shall not have her rights. I am equally res- 
olute that she shall. You make it necessary to decide the question 
by legal process.” 

“ The lady denies being the jierson herein named. YVith such 
contradiction and discrepancy you will have me acknowledge her heir?” 

“ Right must prevail. What is w^ritten in this w^ill is, in the main 
part, our guide. Mrs. Gault’s wishes as to the disposition of the es- 
tate should be canned out, no matter about the birth or antecedents 
of the heir.” 

“ YVliy not w^ait for the codicil ?” interposed the lawyer. “ Quah- 
fications are usually more impoidant in wiUs than the tirst readings. 
An extra, as ’tw'ere, contradicting the sheet we have been poring 
over for facts.” He was the only one w^ho could bend to facetiousness. 

Berenice, at intimation of a codicil, evinced a general sinking in 
her tone and attitude. 

“ This codicil must give another turn to aftaii*s. The name of 
Ruth YY^'ard occurs in nearly every other line of it,” said Dr. W^'yatt, 
in a provokingly pleasant way. 

“liuth YVard — Ruth Ward, always that girl,” muttered the one 
most deeply concerned. 

THE CODICIL AND THE READING OF IT. 

“ For reasons painful to give, but strong as fate, true as death, I 
revoke the will wi’itten above this codicil and (day and date given) 


140 


BERENICE. 


aR wdlls disposing of my entire estate, and bequeath to one who 
never failed me in my need, my beloved friend, Ruth AVard, all my 
wordly goods which shall be designated by my dearest male friend, 
Dr. George AV^yatt, whom I name here as executor of my entire es- 
tate and guardian of Ruth AVard, until she shall have arrived at law- 
ful age. I desire and demand, and make it a clause in this codicil, 
that if Ruth AA'ard be not inclined to live at Alount Marah, it shall be 
placed in the care of responsible persons: — Dr. Aloore and his wife, 
Berenice, not included in the range of possibilities as being its occu- 
pants. To Berenic^e I bequeath my jewels, many of them were gifts 
of her father to me.” 

“ Damnation ! ” said Dr. Moore, in a fierce tone, striking his fist 
upon the table until I started out of my chau’. Berenice chimed in : 

“ This is your scheme, sir, to brand my name and make her the 
heir of Airs. Gault ! ’’ 

•‘Madam, I hold your husband responsible for ;ill remarks of 
yours concerning my proceedings as executor of the Aubrey estate.” 

“ Swindler ! schemer ! trickster ! do your worst. My husband does 
not fear you.” 

Dr. AVyatt arose hastily and walked towards Dr. Aloore. I threw 
my arms convulsively around my filend, and implored him not to 
get up a scene, before ladies. Berenice had been silenced by her 
husband, who did not, at this juncture, prove to be a des2:)erado. Dr. 
AA'yatt, having the worst of the situation, was far from being con- 
tented at the odds. He directed the close of the conversation to 
Airs. Aloore. 

“To secure for Aliss AA'ard the immediate possession of the Aloiint, 
measures shall be taken forihwith, unless you ask for a reasonable 
delay.” 

“I ask notliing of you. Nor will I yield up my rights to that 
girl. ‘ Possession is nine points in law.’ ” 

“ Choose less hackneyed illustrations for the basis of your stand- 
point. This one fails signally, when opposed to common sense. 
Good day, madam. 

“ Take me with j'ou to the city. Doctor;” I entreated of him as we 
passed out. 

“ Certainly; I intend to do so. Are your trunks ready ?” 

“Yes; they have been ready for a month.” 

“ AA^e will not wait here for the train, which is not due for three 
hours. Tell Isaac to bring the trunks, and bid him not forget my 
valise. Let’s be off. The Borgias or Aledicis will have my life, and 
yours, too, if we do not get away.” 

The last I remember of Alouiit Alarah is the station, where I 
walked back and forth, and sat down, and got up again, trying in 
vain to get interested or amused Iw the crowd of loungers that were 


BERENICE. 


141 


talking of matters inexpressibly dull to me. ' Some country gentle- 
man had the' Doctor by the button, depriving me of his companion- 
ship. How I managed to while away the three long hours, I can^t 
explain. I know the shrill whistle was sweet as the voice of Hermes. 
The Doctor said, when we were “all aboard:” , 

“Hang that bore; I couldn’t get away from him. First, ’twas his 
crops, then his corns ; after that he had to estimate what crops and 
corns might lead to, in pains and gains.” 

Poor old Isaac ! I left but this one being with regret. He stood 
with me at the last moments of my stay, with his hat held reverent 
tiahy in his hand. His breast heaved. Tears came to his dimmed 
eyes as he stooped reverentially to press my hand to his lips. I 
could only look my sad farewell as he said: 

“ God bless you. Miss Roof, and take care of you. You has been 
good and kind to eberybody. You is de last link, de last face, that 
will ever put me in mind of the Aubreys, de ole family, de rightful 
owners of dis place. Who’s gwine to hab it now ? Not dat Dr. 
Moore and his wife ? Don’t teU me dat. ’Fore God, if it’s dat 
wa}’’, and I is to stay wid dese cruel white folks, I di'own my ole car- 
cass in de crik. I ! I will ! Miss Roof,” said he, emphatically, 
as he struck his staff on the ground. “ I will ’fore God ! Oh, miss, 
dey said you w’as to hab de old place. Is it de trufe ?” 

“ It might be truth. I could almost hope so, for your sake. Keej:) 
heart. God will care for you.” 

“ Dat’s true. When aU gibs us up and deserts us. He is dar wid a 
light to guide us. Forewell, Miss Roof ! Dese old eyes will be 
closed and rotted out ’fore you gits back to me. De law is mighty 
slow. Old I^aac never look in your face again on dis erf. Good 
bye ! Good bye ! Miss Roof, foreber !” 

I dropped my vail in double folds, and fell into a reverie, about 
Isaac, the “crik” and the old place. 


CHAPTER Till. 


imOSYNCK^CIKS AND PBOCLIVITIES ^\’OI('ES IN MY DHE.4M.S. 

“ The page I Yvould have blotted out from my life forever, was af 
last turned back — Mount Marah. Sad record ! For fully ten min- 
utes after our arrival in the city, Dr. Wyatt had not awakened from 
his ‘brown study.’ I sat waiting his attention Yvith some anxiety 
about my future home. 

“ Can you not find a way to dispose of me, Doctor ?” I asked, 
judging that the question was perplexing him at the moment. 

“ I was thinking of Berenice and her insult, and wondering how I 
succumbed to it. As to you, a pleasant home Yvith a distant relative 
of mine, a maiden lady, is at your service for the present.” 

“ The lady in question is an old and unmarried one ?” 

“ She certainly has relinquished claims to youth, but not wdth it, 
as in many cases, to kind-heartedness and good* nature. She has 
nothing to lavish her affections upon at present but a family of 
cats.” 

“Cats?” 

“ I counted seven lying by the fire the last visit I paid her, abo-ut 
two months ago.” 

“ Seven cats ! You surely jest !” 

“No jest; but six were kittens. Doul)tless, by this time they are 
adopted by friends.” 

“ The cats’ friends ?” 

“ The lady’s fiiends, which must also be the cats’. ‘ Love me, love 
my dog.’ Bye the bye,” said he, looking at the clock, “Yve will set 
out immediately. She may retire, as she is not expecting us to- 
night.” 

“ My coming may be very annoying ?” 

“Not at all, sht has a large house, and in it everything moves like 
clockwork. And, pray, could j'our presence annoy any one, Miss 
Ward,’’ said he, gallantly. 

“ How do you know’ I can bear such compliments as you are con- 
tinually paying me. May I not become vain as a peacock ? My 
presence was not so desirable at the Mount.’’ 


BERENICE. 


148 


“ Miss Piukiiigton will gladly allow you to supercede the cats. 
We will see, however, how you will like each other.'’ 

Dr. Wyatt introduced me as “ Miss AVard, the young lady w’hom I 
told you was my ward;’’ mentioning, at the same time, that I had 
arrived in the city earher than he expected. 

In a cheery way she replied: 

“ Miss AVard is most welcome. I w^ould be glad to have her re- 
main with me. I hope,” said she, turning to me, “ that you will not 
tind the house too lonely.” 

“ I have long been accustomed to a secluded Hfe. Indeed, I am 
fond of solitude.” 

She kissed me, as if my words w^ere a pledge of remaining with 
her. Being exceedingly susceptible to kindness, her warmth of man- 
ner pleased me. Taking a look at my hostess, I found her to be 
much the most diminutive lady I had ever seen. Her hair, silvery 
and redundant, was put up in a simple way at the back of her head, 
w'hile small corkscrew curls fell on each side of her face.' A good 
face it w'as, but never, I judged, a pretty one. The features were 
too small for beauty. Her dress was neat to primness. The white 
cufts that spanned her slight wrists, were little wliiter than her small, 
dainty hands, with the pink, perfect nails. Her complexion quite 
transparent, the peach blossom still on the cheek, with the silver 
curls; not an usual meeting this of January and May. It reminded 
me of early snows and late blossoms. Miss Pinkington had the 
happy way of coming down from the stilted rigidity of age to live in 
the interests of youth, consequently there w^as no restraint in her 
l^resence. 

I must mention a blunder of mine that jarred upon an idiosyn- 
cracy or monomania of this lady. It happened at the first meal in 
the social circle (an arc of three) at Miss Pinkington’s. Three seats 
were placed at the table for the morning repast. AVhose the third 
could be I could not conjectui'e. Sevres china and a napkin at the 
third plate. My hostess filled the dehcate, transparent saucer with 
the creamy lacteal. After we were seated, up sprung the cat, the 
mother of the interesting family upon the rug. Placing her paws 
upon the table, where the saucer was, she commenced lapping the 
nftlk with a keen relish. My impulse was, very naturally, a rap on 
the head, a shaiq) rebuke, which she and her mistress quickly re- 
sented: puss, by tapping at me with her paw, and making that j)ecu- 
liar, ferocious sound which only cats can make, and writing has 
no words (that I know of) to express. Looking across the table to 
exchange glances of approval with Miss Pinkington, at my alacrity 
in punishing the ofitender, to my surprise she was fiushed and angry. 
As much displeased as she could be, her wrath, how^ever, w^as but a 
mild tempest at its wurst. 


144 


BEKENICE. 


“Miss Ward, liow could you be so cruel to a j^oor, dumb, in- 
offensive animal 

“ Why, she was drinldng the milk.” 

“ Weil, I put it there for her.” 

“ For a cat ! A cat at the table !” 

“ To be sure. What objection can you urge to that ?” 

“ Oh, none, none in the world; simply because I have not become 
accustomed to eating with cats, I urged an ^ objection. Usage 
makes all oddities appear right.’’ 

“ You do not view the matter as I do. Miss Ward. Cats are very 
■cleanly, are they not ?” 

“ Very.” 

“ Did you ever see one that was not, if in health, glossy as satin ?’’ 

“ Never.” 

That is instinctive cleanliness, you must own.” 

“ It must be, it is; I am sure it is. Let us say no more about this 
cii-cumstance. Miss Pinkington. Perhaps we will never think ex- 
actly alike about it. I can bear with the cat, if you can put up with 
me in my vagaries. Let her drink her milk wdienever you please. 
I will never molest her.” 

Peace was thus established between us as we sat at our first break- 
fast together. But of all the felines that pampered grimallin was 
the greatest — the grand sultana of cats ! She mewed eternally; she 
always wanted something. She mewed to have the door opened to 
let her out, and in an instant she was mewing to come in again. She 
was a puritanical cat as well as an aristocrat. She liked to repose on 
velvets, silks and furs. I couldn’t lay a soft wrapping down for an 
instant, but she was coiled upon it. She would sit for hours with 
her eyes scpieezed tight, looking all the time away from the table, 
waiting for me to leave the room, that she might leap upon it and 
make off with the choicest bit she could find. She caught my bird, 
ate it, and sat beside me while digesting it, with her eyes closed in 
her saintly way. She was guiltlessness personified in her mistress’ 
estimation. True, the neighbors complained of the paragon; that 
she devoured the young chickens whenever she was not watched. 
This was considered a malicious slander. Though I suggested coin- 
cidences that might have criminated her in eyes not blind to Iter 
sins. 

“ She is dull after her foraging,” said I. “ Behold, even since 
morning she has become plethoric. How do you account for the 
change in her prc^ortions 

“ Poor pussy ! I can't account for it. I fear she will be sick,” 
was the answer. 

Puss lies before us stretched upon the rug. Harmless philan- 
thropist, always thus, while the mice were playing around us. She 


BEKENICE. 


145 


would not intciTupt their pretty gambolings. Oh, no; she had finer 
fj’y- 

Notwithstanding this fehne pest these were pleasant days. IVIiss 
Pinkington was a fine performer; her voice, however, had, long be- 
fore I knew her, to use a common expression, failed. She would to 
amuse me when we were alone, attempt to sing. 

“ I am an uncertain warbler, Ruth. Hear me, that you may realize 
what time may do for you, with that exquisite voice of yours. My 
best note, with all my caution to hold it, will fall suddenly ‘ as a 
barometer in a white squaU.’ That comparison was a favorite one 
of my uncle the Admiral. He worked it in whenever it could be 
gotten in. ReaUy, 1 come out in a fuU chord at first, then a fiber, 
then a nerve -shocking squeal,’’ at which she would laugh heartily at 
her vocal deficiency. After <iQne of her displays she became quiet 
and confidential. “Yet I sang well once; so well, that for years it 
made me unhappy to think of \my loss. You do not know that my 
love for the drama amounted tcm mad passion ?” 

“No; 1 never dreamed of it.” ^ 

“ ’Tis true. I had views once — vain ones they proved — of appear- 
ing upon the stage.” 

“ From choice you would have adopted such a j^rofession ?” 

“ Entirely so. Why do you ask me that 

“ Because in many cases, need is the stern mistress that makes' 
actresses; at least I judged so.” 

“ Need ! There is a need in the heart of every one. To find out 
what it is proves to be a difficult task. Mistalves therein are known 
to be very serious in effects.” 

“ Y"ou believe that every one has a vocation ?” 

“ I do. Some one thing that they could do better than anything 
else; though, perchance, through a long life they do not find out 
Avhat it is, as it never appears to them in tangible form; or it 
may, and obstacles arising, daunt us in the pursuit. We attach 
little importance to the efforts of our strong instincts to lead us; or, 
discouraged at the sacrifices to be made to attain the end, we plod 
on in the usual way, waiting for oj^portunity. AVe should make op- 
portunity by seizing upon the present. The need in our hearts may 
be known by the dissatisfied way in which we submit to and accept 
the lot wherein we realize tliat we are never to be above common- 
place. This craving shows us that the canker sore is there.” 

“ And so this ideal and glorious life was one of voim ‘ might have 
beens.’ ” 

“ The only one. Thwarted, there is nothing left to look back 
u]3on. No great work to be remembered. I shall be thought of as 
a good enough sort of old maid, without aspirations. Her pecuhar- 
ity, a love for cats. Deprived of woman’s lot, maternity, wifehood. 


BERENICFi 


14 () 

there siu-ely wa.s a compensation. It is the law of God, which Emer- 
son makes fixed and immutable. The journey of my life ends with- 
out my seeing clearly why it was begun.” 

“ Strangely misled was I in envying you, comparing your content 
to my unrest.” 

“ I look back wistfully at the wasted years. They passed. I 
scarce noted them until my youth was gone.” 

“ You are not old,” answered I, kindly. She did not notice my 
remark, but went on in her own vein of retrospect. 

“ A matron, with her cares endured patiently, can fold her arms 
when the winter comes, and say, '1 rest now'; I have the light 
to rest. I bore my lot unmurmuiingly.’ The right is not mine in 
my aimless life. God left me untrammelled. A wide field of use- 
fulness was before me. The truth is, I lacked, physically, the power 
to make my talent available. Perseverance or continuity w'ould 
have aided me in other ways had I fixed upon an3^ But, no; I 
yielded to circumstances, wiien I should have found something to- 
do. My life has been spent in repining over my lot.” 

“ Why did you not adhere to your original determination ?” 

“ Let me relate to you my early disappointment. I love the drama 
to an extreme. I studied every phase of passion and its exponents 
in the human face, in action, in voice. I forgot to say that my pen- 
chant arose from weekly reunions of the young people of my day. 
We read Shalvspeare — or tried to do so. He would not have recog- 
nized one of his ideals, I fear, in their deformity and curtailings of 
the hard passages. From this my taste originated. In unexpected 
w'ays we c?^relessly and unconsciously place the germs that spring- 
up to our surprise, or chagrin, or our joy, according to the nature 
of the fruit, w’ondering w'hy we took no note of the sowing which 
we reap in sorrow or gladness. But I must go on and relate wdiat 
foUow'ed. I became deeply absorbed in the new life before me. It 
was surely the need of my heart ! And in this I find a jar, a miss- 
ing chord in the harmony of nature. Strong in moth e, burning 
with high desire and lofty aims compassed in a tiny frame, defeating" 
the end for wliich it was created. You can never know* the misfor- 
tune. In my elfoids w'ere a thousand incentives. I think the great- 
est w'as ambition. The delusion lasted too long for my peace of 
mind, and was dispelled suddenly, as the hot sun breaks the fieecy, 
sable cloud. Friends flattered me and inflamed my ardor. At last 
it came upon me as a sudden fiash that I saw no jwiiie figure as mine 
treading the boards a tragic queen. A liUiputian Katherine ! A Lady 
Macbeth doU! Hamlet’s mother, who might have been taken for 
Tom Thumb’s wife ! The narrow pass from the sublime to the 
ridiculous w'ould surely be bridged in the event of my debut in 
tragedy. 


BERENICE. 


147 


After I was convinced, the reaction was terrible. I could not de- 
scribe my sufferings. I had counted so much upon the lire that was 
in my poor, insignificant frame. ’Twas long before I philosophized 
and submitted to my humiliation. 

“ You might have succeeded in a different role.” 

“ I might, in a lighter one, but I could not take to that. I wanted 
to be a great actress, and it is only in the serious and sadder ways of 
life, real or fictitious, that we become so. One by one the com- 
panions of my girlliood passed into the chequered arena of wedded 
life. I grew more lonely — more eccentric, they called it. Shunning 
society, not knowing w’hat to try to become interested in. I joined 
numerous benevolent societies, but I found them prosy and prob- 
lematic, and concluded to give alms first handed, even if they were 
only in the shape of lost time. Tales of woe I preferred to hear 
fi-om Hps made eloquent by suffering. In donations there are so 
many w^astings and washings before the mite reaches its ultimatum, 
that the recipient might well ask for glasses to discern it. I chose 
to see the good I did, and also to single out whom I would serve. I 
had nothing to do with subscription lists, nothing with fairs. Dohng 
out my dollars, I lost favor, and am known by those who do not 
know me, as that horrid little Miss Pinkington, the penurious, selfish 
old maid. Yv^hat do I care ? What does all this pomt to ? I wander 
off. The pith of the conversation w^as that we ought to study our 
needs and our children’s also. Were I the mother of a dozen chil- 
dren, I would watch their inclinations, their preferences, their aver- 
sions. 

‘T^lays and pastimes are often exponents of character wrhich should 
be, to those interested in their \velfare, significant. Especially would 
I use this as a test in my surs^eillance over my boys. As to the poor 
girls, their destinies are all supposed to be forecast. If I had a fine 
dashing boy, a sturdy fellow' wdio loved the water, made mimic 
crafts and sailed them in tubs and gutters, to the detriment of his 
broadcloth jacket and his si^otless w^ristbands, my Admiral (embryo) 
should not be compelled to study theology because I prefened the 
ministry to a life on the wave. I w'ould be guided by the laws of 
nature’s physiques of mind and matter. As there cannot be a De- 
mosthenes for every age to pace the shores of the billowdng sea wdth 
a mantle full of pebbles, practicing elocution, I would not expect my 
boy to overcome Pythonic obstacles as Demosthenes, and be a De- 
mosthenes. Consequently, he, my best beloved, with a squeaking 
voice or nasal twang, shoidd not be led to oratorical aspirations. I 
would put him to something where he would have little to say, and 
H great deal to do. Nor w^ould I make an actor of a boy who could 
not detect a shade of difference ’tw ixt a Shyloek and a Falstaff, Puck 


148 


BEKENICE. 


and ilenrj YlII. — rendering tlie sayings of king and eunucli in the 
same tone and manner.” 

So much for the boys. Pray what of the girls. 

“ If they were old maids, by necessity, after all my earnest desires 
to have them wives, I would pity them, pray for them, and find work 
for them which should answer their cravings — if anything could be 
found to do so. My daughters, as mothers, should find for them- 
selves a superabundance of ’work.” 

“ Would you make them actresses ? ” 

“ Gladly, if the talent, nay, the genius were in them for the great 
life. AVhy would I not exalt them, when ’twas so easy to do so V 

“ The world does not think as you of this profession.” 

“ Success is an imperative requii’ement. Is it not indispensable 
to all greatness ? Never in one instance that I know of, has a de- 
feated aspirant been acknowledged as an able one. There was al- 
’ways something wanting within himself. It was not tlie blindness 
of his judges that doomed him to disappointment. Oh, no; they 
could not err ! That word ‘ success ’ must be upon the banner, or 
it will meet with no salute, no hats off, or waving 'kerchiefs. To en- 
sm’e what we desire, the essential is in gaining a name. Perseve- 
rance will ensure it if the ‘ ring of the true metal ' be heard.” 

“ Do you think?’’ Abashed at the question I was aljout to ask, I 
hesitated. She divined my meaning: she had done more. She 
knew the purpose for Avhich I lived. 

“ The question hovering on your hps I answer. You have every 
requirement for the calhng. In opera you would be inimitable. I 
feared you had weak, puerile views of an artist’s life. Like Joan, 
you hear voices calling upon you to fulfill your destiny. Yet you 
are young, fair. You will love. You will have no need in your 
heart.” 

“ Unless I listen to your advice, which responds to my own de- 
sires. I shall know no other joys than what this life affords. I might 
succeed. It is worth the attempt you think ?” 

“ Say you will. You have beauty and more, genius. Every ges- 
ture speaks your mission. Even in the sipping of your coffee, the 
toss of your lie ad, in your step you are an actress.” 


CHAPTER IX. 


•> 

V 


“ Hitherto I have only seen a great number of masks. 
When shall I see the faces of mankind Rousseau. 

“ Royal wreaths to thee I bring ; 

Not for thee are simple posies ; 

And triumphant pmns sing! 

O the garlands ! O the roses ! 

O the beauty of my king!”— P hoebe Oaky. 


LETTER FROM EUNICE TO RUTH. 


Paris, Rue de . 

Aniie : — I wTite ! How your answer can reach me I knoAV not. I 
would call you “ dearest ” in English, hut you know I am in Paris, 
and having been compelled to learn a little French, I must apply it 
occasionally. Added to what I knew, I am happy to say it makes, 
at times, quite an intelligible hybrid-dialect, partaking of the soft 
Ga^llic and the intricate, but dearly beloved Anglo-Saxon; yet I 
think in plain English, and the burthen of thought is often of you. 

Oh, Ruth ! your sweet American face comes to me and your eyes 
jjity me, as once in the long ago Parisians. A’ou will suppose when 
I write of them, that I, in the gTeat city, am the happiest of Paris- 
ians. But, alas ! 1 am more lonely than when on the deck of the 

“ God-speed,” the land dimmed to shadows, and the deep regret 
which came with its indistinctness, found relief in tears. Was it the 
sea, or was it the full realization of being alone with a stranger land 
for my bourne, which brought a deatlily faintness upon me ? One 
from whom I already recoiled instinctively as a being of evil intent, 
approached, patting me familiarly on the shoulder, and at the same 
time, with an exceeding suavity of manner, offering me a glass of 
wine and smelling salts. I received them, turned wearily away, and 
looked down into the deep, briny blue, with a wondering more than 
a dread, I watched the birds skim along o’er its crested waves, 
now dipping, now soaring, and wished I were free like them to get 
away from every one. I saw in wonder the sun dip down into the 
sea. Then the cloud that hung ominously o^er the East spread its 
jagged outlines o’er the whole sky, mingling with the night, making 
a black and starless sheet above us, while inky, troubled waves were 
beneath. Some one told me to ‘ go below.’ Until then I was obliv- 


150 


BEKENICE. 


ions of all that indicated peril, a reckless, fear-naught feeling liaving 
taken possession of me. An old seaman, in a voice far down his 
throat, said, ’Twill be a rough night,” and w'e “ ladies might 
catch cold on deck.” To the repeated queries Is there any danger, 
captain ?” “ Is there any danger, purser “ Is there any danger, 

steward ?” the answers were positively blasphemous in theii* assur- 
ances of safety to all on board. Being “ rocked in the cradle of the 
deep ’’ was a fearful lullaby, and not at all conducive to sleep. 1 
was glad to see the first streaking of day in the grey sky; but there 
Avere sights after that, fearful ones. Sailing on the blue Avaste of 
waters, under the shining moon, glorious nights Avhich made me 
think of God’s power and my owm insignificance more than all th(? 
lessons ever taught me. Could I have seen the storm I think it 
Avould have stirred my soul to its deeper depths. And now to my 
troubles, since I came to Paris. I am the victim of a cruel deception. 
Immolated upon the altar of avarice. The Hierophant (my uncle) 
is a vile impostor; and yet he is so plausible in speech and in looks! 
No one ever suspects him. A’ou remember the head of 8t. John, in 
the chapel, the beautiful, divine head, that Herodias AA^ould have 
upon a salver ? ’Twould do for my uncle, if you add a few years 
to it, and a line of thought here and there. His beard is patriarchal 
— a silver, shining fleece, covering up his whole breast. As “Proph- 
et,” “Astrologer,” or “ Chfildee,” he is knoAvm. We hve in one of u 
roAV of uninteresting houses of brick, high and old, near tfe environs 
of Paris, Commonplace as the buildings appear to be outAvardly, 
tis raising an uninteresting curtain for the enactment of a A'md 
drama, to pass within the walls. The entrance through a coirntyard. 
like our carriage-ways, paved with squares of stone. The Avidc 
gate, spanned by an arch, so spiked, formidable, that no marauder 
would attempt scahng it. 

In an arm of the main building, over the barrier of spears is my 
room. Think of me in my sorrow, Avriting to you, drawing, Avith 
Avand of memory, your sweet face close to mine, taking myself home 
to America, where I may neA’er, never be. Could I be sure of es- 
caping impalement on these iron prongs I would dash myself, tliis 
minute, headlong into the street. 

As I told you, my fears Av^ere that I w'ould not assimilate with my 
foreign relations, never haAung met them until my afiections or 
hkings were not to be bent to my avlII My dread now is that I may 
not hate them ! But the earnest way in which my soul stiikes out, 
hke a desperate SAvdmmer, A\*ho saaIius for life, in a course separate 
iTom theirs, S2:)anning the blue sea that parts us, fleeing to you, 
haunting its old pure Avays, sighing for the asylum — even for exact- 
ing and earnest and cross Sister Barbara. This assures me that I 
am not lost. 


BEEENICE. 


151 


I must now tell you, in my own way, of my exceeding disappoint- 
ment. There are many spacious rooms in the house, I know it only 
by viewing its outlines, for the doors open in halls or corridors to 
which I have no access. Three persons live here — my uncle, his wife 
and myself. She is an automaton. A small woman, with a small, 
turbaned head, and dull, beady eyes, narrow, receding forehead, 
starved, withered form — ^just the nondescript whom ^ might move 
at our will, having a mind that stronger ones may warp to serve 
their purposes of e\dl. 

Blanche ! my cousin 1 I forgot her entirely ! The fairest of 
blondes, but with coloring, rich, red lips and pink cheeks. A pro- 
vincial. Blanche and I took to each other at first. We are as far 
npaid to-day as the antipodes. My estimate of people and morals 
<lid not tally with hers. However, before we knew it didn’t, she 
oame to me one morning and said, in French, (which I managed to 
understand by her gesticulation, the lifting up of eyebrows, shrug- 
ging of shoidders and my ability at guessing) : 

“You want to see the rooms below? Now is the chance for it ! 
They are out ! I have the keys.’’ 

Curiosity is a tempter (and an unprincipled one, too). Of coui-se 
I wanted to get a sight at the lower part of the house, for, really, 1 
lived in my room, and any mystery keeps one abstracted and won- 
dering and conjecturing. Bravely descending the stairs, Blanche ' 
ainlocked a door of the parlor and w’e entered. 

“ Why are those rooms always locked ?” asked I. pausing. 

'* Because the astrologer desires them to be so.” 

“Do you ever entertain in them ?” 

Yes, sometimes, gentlemen.” 

“ And why not ladies ?” 

“Because I have few lady friends.” 

“But the few — they come, do they not?’’ 

“ If we stand here prattling. Uncle may return. Ill explam about 
my Mends afterwards.” 

“ Go in, then, but as we enter, I am obliged to say there is too 
much mystery in the house for me. What sort of a place is it ?’’ 

“ Don't you know by this time that people get their horoscopes 
read here, and that Monsieur is a magician, almost ?” 

“ Yes; I know he pretends to tell fortunes; but I think it a grand 
c'heat. Such power is not given to man. ’Tis presumption to as- 
sume that it is.” 

“ There were in old times prophets. What has been, may be 
again. I argued no more, but still I knew that aU was not right. 
Mystery and crime are inseparable as the deed and its expiation. 
But, as we are in one of the rooms, you had better pass on -with us, 
and fancy yourself an obseiwer. I am your guide. I pray you be 


152 


BERENICE. 


attentive to our conversations; Blanche has odd opinions. Here are 
frescoed ceilings. Tlirow hack your head. Look at them. Love 
and Psyche. I cannot get accustomed to nude, painted figures. 
Statuary does not oppress me morally. I imagine your reply: 

“ To the pure aU things are pure.’’ 

“ Then of course everything here is looked upon by pure people, 
and is conseqilfently pure. In the recesses are statues rather start- 
ling to the unartistic eye.’^ 

“ Ceres and Proserpine,” Blanche says introductorily, as we stand 
in their presence. “ Ganymede, with a cup of ambrosia” (for Hebe, 
I suppose, after he has feasted the gods uj^on it).” 

“ Pray, what is the necessity of the strong bars, and the ponderous 
Avindows, under the heavy di'apings ? How do you get air in sum- 
mer ? ’ 

“Wait till summer comes and you will see, ma chere,"’ is the reply. 
“ Sufficient for the day is the e^R thereof.” 

“ You’re right; I’ll Avait. But I am to live here AAdth the right of 
an inmate. I seriously object to the closeness and darkness. I like 
the jalousies of our country.” 

“ We haA^e them in Paris; I adore them. They make one think of 
stolen glances at our chasfieuj'.% and cavaliers, and citizens. We get 
a peep here at none, military or civilian, only those approved by 
Uncle. Mid-day by the clock ! Who’d have believed if? We must 
not delay.” 

“ What kind of lamps are these? ” 

“ You poor rustic ! You had better ask me Avhat gives this de- 
lightful odor which pervades the atmosphere.” 

“ I knoAv. It’s that queer flame burning in the saucer. I’d rather 
smell new’ mowm hay, or clover.” 

Around the room are ranged sofas, ottomans, tete-a-tetes. Tliis 
being an exploring expedition, Ave dare not rest upon them, however 
alluring they may be. Ebony furniture, carved and inlaid. Etages, 
tables, brackets filled with statuettes, jar dines with fresh flowers. 
Blanche says, “ We never let our flowers fade.’’ ■ Pshaw ! I find they 
are paper. 

“ The statuettes put me in mind of little snow men that I Avorked 
up in Avinter at home. Ah, Blanche, it is such fun to throw them 
doAvn and break them to pieces !” 

“ Y’^ou have snow ? I thought you lived in a country hot as a fur- 
nace.’’ 

“ Not we ! We did really have a heavy snoAv in my time. It lay 
on the ground three Avhole days ! Oh, gracious ! here are the most 
magnificent birds ! Why don’t they fly at our approach? Stuffed ! 
Mute as my ow^A heart. All the singing is taken out of it since I 
came to Paris.” 


BERENICE. 


153 


“ 1 cannot pity the birds,” Blanche remarked, curling her pretty 
lips. 

“ You can’t ! Why not?-^ 

We only die once. They would have died sometime.” 

“ Here is a cabinet of cuiiosities to which we pass. Insects that 
wiU skim no more over their kingdoms of fruits and flowers. But- 
terflies, the most singular ones, too; and the Quaker-fooking moth, 
that seeks light and heat until it singes its wings. Is it not too 
true that “ those who love danger shall perish in it ? ’’ Blanche 
assented readily. 

“ Fire will burn,” said she, laughing. “Let me pause to thank 
Hod that I am not an ornithologist, or a naturahst, or still worse, 
ji specimen, impaled upon yonder black velvet pall, with pins. 
Death by slow toidure.” 

“ The astrologer says they live a week, if the pin is small,’’ Blanche 
rephed, in a tone of unconcern. 

“(xoldfish, in a sea with glass bound shores. Reptiles, too.’’ 

“We have quite a museum. The cobra di capello — don’t start; it 
is only a stuffed one. And here is the prettiest little play-fellow — 
one of a kind that acted well his part, after a great, grand seiies of 
triumphs and tragedies, for a woman.” 

“For Cleopatra.” 

“ Here are wonders of human ingenuty in ivory, coral, pearl, jet 
and picta dura — Eastern handiwork; temples, terraces, gardens and 
fountains. The most remarkable achievements of mechanism we find 
in the Celestials en famiUp. Mandarins, too, looking so wise and 
hideous. What execution ! How tiny, yet how })erfect each part ! 
The palanc[uins ! 

“ In this one the lady with the oblique eyes and stupid leer calls 
for our admiration,’’ said Blanche. 

“ Which she shall not have, at least not mine. What fine fmni- 
ture uncle has. But tell me, Blanche, like a good girl, why are "we 
kept up stairs ? Why not throw the house open to us, and not make 
our lives so dull and so mysterious ?’’ 

“ You will puzzle that out soon enough, cliild. We are in a hurry. 
AVe have another room on our hands finer than this. Here it is,”" 
said she, sliding back the door. “ Please, Ruth, as far as your fancy’s 
eye can penetrate, let it do so. You may find in the darkness a silken 
(*anopy fringed and tasselled, over a dais. Decide from this distance, 
that before you in the extremity of the room, is a bed of thornless 
roses upon a base of soft, velvet moss, green and fresh as the banks 
of Doon. You will know at once that here must be found ‘ the balm 
of a thousand flowers,’ by the roses, lilies, jessamines and violets in 
the urns and vases. There’s no enchantment in it. The palace will 
not fly off‘! Gorgeous apartments, kept in a hazv, cheating hght, 
10 


154 


BERENICE. 


that makes old tilings look new and bad things good. The faces, 
(said Blanche, forgetting herself,) “ that smile upon you from the 
wall, are like the living, passion-breathing houries, who come and 
Avhile away the time in these rooms.’’ 

“ And pray who are they you think so fair ? Surely they are not 
fairer than you.” 

“ Or than you, why not ask 

“ Well, that is entireR a matter of taste. Blonde and brunette, 
we necessarily have partisans.” 

“"MTio sleeps in that bower? It looks so sweet, so alluring.” 

“No one in particular, i^ou will some time, I fancy.” 

“ I ! Impossible ! AWiy do you think so ?” 

“Don’t question me further. I am not to tell more than is neces- 
sary to be told. The high priest makes all clear to his neophytes 
when he thinks fit. Time Hies. We must go up stairs immediately; 
he will find us here and ’twould offend him deeply.” 

“ I haven’t half examined the sights. Stay a moment, I want to 
take a stolen rest.” 

“Rest, then; but do not venture to doze or dream'” 

“ It puts me in mind of a street song sung at home. Bye the bye, 
the song had a warning in it about serpents or thorns. AVe all know 
that roses must have them.” 

“Do come away ‘ Out of the Bower Shaded for A’ou.’ You see I 
have heard the song as well as yourself, wise one.’’ 

“ Come, have 3^011 not satisfied those wondering e\'es of Amours ? 
Come, it is getting to be time for us to be caught. Come, I want fr) 
talk to 3'ou. Y^ou do not anticipate half the imjDortant matters I have 
to teU 3'ou of. I can read 3'our future for you better than he.” 

Blanche is a strange girl. I do not like her opinions about any- 
thing in morals, actions or thoughts. They are so different from 
Sister Agatha’s and, indeed, from mine also. 

^ ijc >1= -K 

Since I wrote the preceding lines, I have discovered that I am in 
IDeill. AA’^ere there a possibilitv of thinking this man, whose roof 
shelters me, a magician, how grand he would be. I reA'ere the won- 
derful ! AA'ere he the prophet, as he assumes, I would venerate 
him ; but it is 1113' lot to aid him in his deceptions, and therefore I 
abhor him. Fashionable and fan-, 3"oung and old, come to know the 
future of him, as if God would give him such knowledge. He told 
me of m3’ lover in 1113’ fortune. Never having had one I felt amused, 
and aU the more so, when I Avas advised to banish the recollection. 
Ujion his asking me the da3’' of m3’ nativit3’, I answered: 

“ I reall3’ never knew. I depend upon 3’our ascertaining it. 
Surel3’ Avith 3’our knowledge of the planets and their auguries 3’ou 
AA’ill find it not impossible.” 


BERENICE. 


155 


Looking wiser than ever, lie unfolded a black scroll studded with 
«tars, hieroglyphics and heads — half man, half beast, they appeared 
to m«. 

“ Your birth is here,^’ said he, pointing his finger to a certain clus- 
ter <xf stars. “ It happened not far fi’om earth’s aphelion, at which 
lime we find Cassiopla as a constellation. In its conformation are 
fifty-five stars !” 

Where is it, uncle? Show it to me. Ah, so it is; quite plain, 
too.’’ 

“ She is on the throne with a palm in her hand, signifying that 
^vou were born under the palm.” 

“ Andromeda must be near,” I remarked, brushing up my mem- 
ory for the fragmentary lessons of astronomy I had studied at the 
iisylum. He looked quizzically at me, as he found a ready answer: 

She is always to be seen above her mother.” Bending over the 
scroll with knitted brows, he continued: “ You are to be great, if by 
.an unwise course you do not cast your lot among the lowly. You 
are to be loved by too many, which constitutes the impediment to 
your success. You will experience a great grief, but a transitory 
■one. It is for th6 death of one dear to you.” 

I asked impulsively, earnestly: 

Who is it ? Oh, teU me !” (Ruth, you were in my thoughts. I 
feared until his answer came) : 

Your lover, whom you left behind.” 

I laughed a little, but soon restrained my mirth. My idea was 
not to 2:)unish his presumption by denying the charge. He read on: 

After 3^our great grief, which will be, as I said, of brief duration, 
you wiU meet with a surprise.” 

I have been in a whirl of surprises lately. What is the new 
one ?” 

If I were to tell vou ’twould be no surprise.” 

True.” 

There is a cross in your way.” 

Blessed saints ! A cross ! Is there a crown after it V” 

Aye, a tlmone ! That may be the crown.” 

Do you pretend to say that I shall sit upon it in regal power ? 
Wliat fairy land is to spring up as my dominion ?” 

" I dare not prophesy so far as that. It is emblematic of the reign 
of beauty. Where that may lead is as uncertain as a comet’s origin. 
Aiagicians can not trace its way, nor can they limit a woman’s ca- 
price.” 

^ The path of glory leads but to the grave,’ ’’ as Sister Barbara 
wrote in our coj^ies. 

" Yes; to the grave,’’ echoed he. “ Where necromancy fails, know- 
ledge and prescience is of earih.” 


156 


BERENICE. 


“ You find for me a cross and a throne. I’d rather have had the 
crown of roses; but I resign myself to my greatness.’^ 

“ The coronation is the last scene you behold. You do not trace 
the guillotine and the basket.’’ 

“ I would far rather know the end of a life or a book than its he- 
giiming. I like to come to the two little words Avhich dash my 
high-wu’ought expectations to the earth, or raise them accordingly 
— the end.” 

“ I give you the result of my researches. See that you do not 
spoil the fair promise by yom* folly.” 

“’Tis plain, said Blanche, “that this story w'as to make you con- 
vict 5'ourself, supposing you to have a lover in America. He has one 
of his own seeking for you, and these would be confiicting clauns.’^ 

“ I sincerely hope my uncle wiU not exert himself particularly in 
my behalf as to matrimonial projects.’’ 

“ He will, you may rely upon it. So be warned !” 

In a few days after this conversation my eyes were opened. I am 
sorry to be convinced that my cousin assists wilhnglv in his tiick- 
eries. We are both here as lay figures for an impostor; important 
adjuncts to his infamous designs. Blanche, the bldnde, corresponds 
to the hopes of swarthy sons of sunny climes, and I to the Saxon, or 
Hyperborean, upon established j^i’i^ciples— attraction of opposites. 
Let me describe myself in costume for the “Bower of Love,” as I 
appeared a day after my exjfiorations in the parlors with Blanche. 
Impalpable as a \fision m 3 ’ dress. Had I not rebelled and stormed 
and wept, 'twould have been even less tangible than this cloudlet of 
gauze, to which mv long, flowing black hair gave a startling, ghostlv 
whiteness. Among the wax figures at the museum, wliich I visited 
Avith m 3 " uncle, the da 3 " Ave left America, there w’as the tableau ! 
The perfect ^^o.sc, head drooped, arms gracefullA’ disposed, hnibs re- 
laxed, as if the slumber Avere real, i^rofound. ’Tis hard to tell the 
dupes from the scoffers. I am sure man 3 " go aAvay belieA’ing they 
ha\"e unraA’elled the future, delighted Avith the glimpse the 3 " have 
obtained of the coinponion da voyage o’er the sea of life, — a A’isioii 
that the mighty magician has conjured for them. This house is de- 
ceptive, or rather delusive, with an influence incomprehensible, poAv- 
erful and leading to evil. No A-iolation of decorum gives an innate 
recoiling after Ave haA"e breathed the atmosphere. We have become, 
without our knoAA’ing the change, luUed to a destro 3 ’ing slumbeiv 
There are broad platitudes, zig-zag roads. We are puzzled AA’hen 
light and wrong haA"e no bold lines of definement. A little light 
fr-om God’s blessed sunshine might break the spell; excluded from 
it, Ave forget there is a God, or a beautiful Avoiid of His Avithout the^ 
pale of man’s chicanery. My self-control, mv knowledge of the 
human heart, have all proved mere chimeras. I am exceedingly 


BEKENICE. 


157 


bumbled. “ Pity begets love.’^ I am scorned. He of whom I am 
about to speak knows not of my better nature. He looks upon me 
as the aider, abettor and co-plotter of a bad man. Having a horo- 
scope read, he burst into exclamations not at all appertaining to the 
astrologer’s jargon about schemes and planets. Hear his first re- 
mark: 

^‘Mythical, spiritual!^’ (Uncle said I was so.) “No, no, no!” 
with that wave of coloring 1 It deepens even as I speak. “ Ha ! ha I 
my beautiful one 1 And she is mine, old man ! You promised this 
fair being to me 1’^ 

“ In the future, and not far off, ’twill be, when the house of ” 

Hang the house, and your future, and your celestial presage ! 
Magician, your barriers, and boundaries are spider webs. I pass 
them — 

My son, your vision is clouded. Approach not. Violence 
and turmoil are fatal to prescience, as to love. The tide of des- 
tiny sweeps onward. She will be yours j I read it in the 
heavens.’^ 

After moments of suppressed conversation, the veil fell. The 
merest mist of a tangibility thickened gradually. I could indis- 
tinctly observe two forms. They became fainter, more distant. 
I knew myself to be alone, fled to my room to pray, to write to 
you, my counsellor. Alas, I cannot hope for a word from you to 
guide me. My unsettled life forbids. I shall not stay here j I 
dare not trust myself. The tempter came to Eden, the tempter 
comes to Hades. My mind is disturbed with thoughts of the 
voice that even in speaking to the serpent, could be no less than 
.music. The form, my ideal of grace and elegance, is before me, 
waking or dreaming. Again, I dare not trust myself. 


CHAPTER X. 


LETTER FROM EUNICE TO RUTH. 

Paris, Rue de . 

(Jliere Hath : — My heart is in sore travail this night. With all 
my boasted strength I am weak. After writing to you, I set only 
knowing not whither, having no object but to escape from the 
snares that beset me. I wandered all day, but I met not one 
face which spoke to my heart the language we feel without hear- 
ing. Xot one could I confide in, so far as to say to its owner^ 

pity me, save me Shelterless, I could not ask for shelter. 

Night came on. I was lost in the streets of Paris. At length 
I asked some poor, abject-looking creature, to direct me back ta 
my hated home. Midnight came, and I had just reached the 
gate. I crouched down under the shadow of the high walls, 
avoiding observation, expecting to remain there until moruing.. 
Within a few minutes, carriages drove up j persons alighted. I 
saw that the parlors were filled with visitors. The hawk eyes of 
the Astrologer descried me, as I hid me in the shadows of the 
wall. He stooped, looked in my face, raised me quickly from my 
position, asking me in an angry voice, how I dared to be out of 
the house all day and up to that hour of the night ? 

“ I went this morning to walk,’’ said I, and could not retrace 
my steps.’’ 

Lost the w^ay, hey ? And you choose to walk in the pouring 
rain ?’’ 

“ Yes, sir ! The rain came on through the day, you know.” 

“ You will never have the chance of losing your way again, 
believe me. Go to your room, quickly.'’ 

After this adventure, I was never allowed to pass the gate 
alone. 

Again came the cruel farce, the cheat, the detestable play. I 
objected, earnestly, to taking a iiart therein, olfering to perforin 
the most menial services in our domestic economy, if by them 1 
might be saved from this. The reply was, Nothing is expected 
of you but to remain passive. A trifle, mademoiselle, in consid- 
eration of your benefits in my house, your leisure, the luxurious 


IBEKEXICE. 151> 

life you are leadiug, your opportunities of making a future for 
yourself.” 

(Opportunities ! they were to be evident before long.) 

“ Do not suspect me of ingratitude/’ I replied^ ‘‘ if nothing 
else will suffice as recompense for your liberality, I submit to 
your desires. I will assist you in playing the fool.” 

With tears starting to- my eyes, with every better feeling in 
rebellion, I reached the bed of flowers, under the shimmering 
lights and gossamer drapiugs. Closing my eyes to shut out the 
sight of the mummery, praying tor it soon to end, I awaited the 
denoument. I heard suppressed voices, masculine ones, then a 
smothered step near me. Instinct tells us when we are under a 
steady gaze from eyes that look evil. My soul said : ‘‘ Arise ! 
throw off this mask, iiroclaim this man a cheat !” But the step 
came near, so near I knew I could stretch forth my hand and 
touch the form whose proximity so annoyed me. A power that I 
never felt before, came softly, subtly. A languor stole o'er me, 
like the prelude to deep slumber. My eyes were closed, in a 
moral sense. The soft, sensuous odors of summer winds o’er 
southern gardens, pervaded the apartment. A stupor, a subtle 
sleep, was pressing down my heavy lids. 

There arose at this moment, a low, spirit-like melody, far away^ 
yet every note distinct. My veins thrilled back and forth, like a 
surging sea. Ever^* fibre of my frame answered the reverbera- 
tions. Deeper, more enthralling became the spell. 1 could not 
speak. I strove to arise, but iu vain. I sank back again to the 
dangerous somnambulism. The feeling, as I lay there, of pure 
and ])erfect rest, is beyond my power to picture. Yet I knew I 
^v^as the slave of another’s will. You are ready, with your pas- 
sionless nature, to upbraid me. Hear me to the end. For one 
moment 1 could have borne the most exquisite torture rather 
than have resisted that will, evil though I knew it to be. Can 
you explain this strange ]30wer that mortals have over each 
other, subservient only to a divine one ? A voice from the re- 
gions of the blessed, as I silently raised my thoughts upwards, 
seemed to speak my salvation. It was written in my childhood’s 
prayer. It was uttered in confidence, nay, in blind and uugrop- 
ing faith, by my childish lips. Many a night it was the last 
w ord upon them: 

He hath given His angels charge over thee, to keep thee in 
all thy ways.” 

His angels ! I felt the protective shadow of their wings. I sprang 
from the person wdio stood near, exclaiming with bitterness, remorse- 
ful at my ow n weakness, indignant at my jiersecutors: 

“ God have pity on me ! I am only mortal. Save me from this 


100 


BERENICE. 


temptation.” Pleading for his resj^ect, I said: “You think me weak, 
contemptible and, it may be, wicked. I pray you do not judge me ! 
Y^ou know not how I came to be in this false position, nor do you 
know what I am.” 

With a sardonic smile, he answered: 

“You can be nothing less to me than the incarnation of diyiiie 
ideals — angels. Y^ou lose by such comparison. Rather let me speak 
of you as a beautiful woman — God’s best gift to man on earth.” 

“ Do not speak of God, it is blasphemy.’^ 

“ You spoke of Him just now.” 

“I did; yet you should not. I would not have dared your Sa- 
tanic power. I knew it too weU. I never dreamed that you were 
to look upon me here the second time.” 

The acknowledgment was wrong. I saw in an instant my en'or. 
He approached. He bade me find refuge in his protecting arms 
from all ills — poverty, dependence, the world’s neglect. There was 
nothing in life that to him was impossible, nothing but to forget me. 
A refuge from all ills ! Ah, Ruth, that Avas a hard sentence to dash 
out, and face all ills as I must. I spoke resolutely; nevertheless, I 
stood angry and flushed before him, trying to look my scorn. My 
indignation was lost on him. 

“ Positively,” said he, “ that flash in your eyes makes you res- 
plendent. Impassioned, passionate being ! There is no oath by 
Venus, or I’d SAvear it; but this I can swear. I would sell my soul 
for another moment as the one past, AAuth your eyes flashing defiance, 
Avhile your soul yielded to its desire, to my love.’’ 

“ Every moment AAntli you makes me hate myself. Telling me of 
my weakness is like your sex; their magnanimity to ours is proverb- 
ial. Let me leaA^e this room. I aauU go. You dare not detain me. 
My uncle Avill hold you accountable for this outrage.” 

“ Your uncle. The fortune-teller ! the sage ! the Chaldean ! Ha ! 
ha ! ha ! Who and AAdiat are you, to live in this house and not knoAv 
the man aaLo sells you as he would sell his horses or his hounds or 
any of his possessions to the highest bidder? This good uncle 
brought me here. You are mine. I have won you in fair conflict.” 

“ Fair ? Say not so. I am betrayed, but not lost, not aa^oii. ]\Iy 
fate rests with myself. AYe die but once.” 

“ A Rebecca in heroism ! Prayers befit a man. Odd enough they 
appear in this place. Y"ou came here AAMhngly, did you not ? Let 
me reason Avith you, SAveet one.” 

“ Your Avords AA^ill be vain. AATien women follow Reason she leads 
them, step by step, doAvn to perdition. Impulse — God-gAen im- 
lAulse — is Right and Truth. I folloAv blindfold. Sir, I came to this 
room by compulsion. Y’ou may think otherwise.” 

“ I kn(?AV not that this man Avho disposes of me, Avas Avorse than an 


BEEENICE. 


1V>1 


imposter, who worked upon the credulity of weak people, from 
avaricious motives. That was low and mean enough to make him 
despicable to me ; but now I know liini as he is. You would hold 
me accountable for the traffic in which I have had no hearing — the 
sale of myself. You can not. Your own sense of right, your honor, 
your judgment will rise against you and strike you powerless. My 
life has been pure, heretofore, except the pollution of being gazed 
upon by wicked eyes for that bad man, whom I never saw until he 
came to take me from my Southern home. Ah, you smile, you 
scoff, you doubt ! Have you sisters ? I am as pure as they, though 
they be liighly and I lowly born. I will not stoop to degradation or 
dishonor.’’ 

“ But we do not give these liarsh names to alliances such as I pro- 
pose to you. France, an indulgent mother to her children, smiles 
at their foibles. And pray, is living for one, dying for one, dis- 
honor ? My dear girl, the maniages of our country and other coun- 
tries, are often deepest-dyed criminalities. Many a fair woman would 
nestle happy in my home without a wincing of conscience. Mar- 
riage is an egregious error. Man, and w^oman, too, seek to break 
their fetters every day. Love makes all intercourse hallowed and 
holy. In you I have found the very being necessary to my lieaid. 
Let not foolish prejudices thwart our happiness. Oh, Eunice ! what 
a dream of supremest bliss ours would be !” 

“ It might. But the awakening, what think you of that ? We 
could not always dream. Conscience is imperative. She will have 
her voice heard. The guilty soul responds to the caU; remorse and 
despair follow.” 

“ No, sweetest ! Remorse ? Never, where the passion is holy and 
perfect. We would forget the world, steal from it, far away to some 
fair region, some sunny clime, with sea-girded isle, one that Moore 
describes so beautifully: 

‘ Wluifo the bright eyes of angels only 
Should come around us to behold 

A paradise, so pure and lonely.’ 

Would this be world enough for thee ? Would it, Euniec? It 
would. I answer for you; your eyes prompt me. The prospect 
pleases. We will go to the beauteous valleys near the cliffs of the 
Tyrol, or by the shores of some lily-bordered lake, or in the deep 
groves of fair Italy ; aye, even in the broad savannas of your own 
South, in the shade of palms and magnolias, fanned by breezes, 
laden with jessamine odors. Anywhere, darling, that you will. You 
turn from me with prudish scorn ; yet you are not cold by nature. 
You wiU not drive me to despair. Afar from love, from you, I die. 
Wealth will be useless unless you share it. Speak. Be mine, Eu- 


162 


BEEENICE. 


nice ! I shall know that you despise me if your answer be not that 
which I dei^end upon for niy very life, my hope of Heaven.’’ 

“Despise you? I wish I could as you deseiwe.” 

“ That was heartfelt. You are wiUing ! Love of mine, say I am 
yours, body and soul !” 

“ No, no; tempt me not. Lead me not to sin.” 

“ A man worships you; he lays his hfe and foidune at your feet. 
You are no prude. It follows that your heaid must be preoccupied. 
Y'ou love another. "Where is your lover now ? Can he aid you ?” 

I shuddered, but I tried to be calm and collected. 

“ Sir,” said I, “ a weak woman, who has no lover, who desires to 
hve a pure hfe, seeks yom' protection. You are too good to act the 
base paid your words foreshadow. I had no voice in my uncle’s 
wickedness. I spurn him ! I make m3" weakness my strenth. I am 
not 3"Ours siuce I was not his when he sold me. I ^vill depaid from 
this room and from this house. I can do it and I will.” 

A shade of sadness came over his face. The sensual look had 
departed. (Perfect acting, worthy of Talma). “Eunice,” said 
he, impressivel3", “ think of my prediction when it will be ful- 
filled. You are destined for a darker fate than your thoughts 
have conceived. Mutual love would have been the only require- 
ment to hallow our compact. Y"ou now are at the merc3" of oth- 
ers. Y"ou do not love me. Since you cannot do so, you shall 
nevfer meet me again. I am not the debauchee which man}", 
having power and opportunity, would prove to be.” 

He stepped aside to allow my exit. His eyes were tixed upon 
mine, reading there my wavering purpose. It was the moment 
of fate. 

His at)parent magnanimity had inspired me with a better feel- 
ing than passion. I regretted the distance which must come be- 
tween us. I would take it half away. To lose all trace of his 
existence, I could not. 

“ You are noble,” said I, stopping on liiy way out. “ You have 
proved to be what I hoped you were.” 

I stood waiting for his repl3". None came. I spoke again : 

“ These studied, cold words do not clothe m3" w"arm thoughts. 
Indeed, at this moment, I find no words adequate to exjiress my 
feelings; I can only ask 3"our friendship.” 

He cared little for this, and answered by expressing his esti- 
mate of my overtures : 

“I receive your compromise with the best possible grace, 
taking your protestations at their worth : a civil acknowledg- 
ment of 1113^ politeness in relieving 3^011 from the power of an un- 
fortunate and troublesome lover, whose earnest passion finds no 
response in 3"Our heart. Is it not so ? Speak the worst.” 


BERENICE. 


1(>:3 

Not beiii^ so sure of getting out of his power as I had been a 
moment before, I became wise and diplomatic, add answered 
cautiously : 

‘‘I cannot easily forget you. Whatever you have done to 
shock my sense of purity, 1 forgive. Circumstances placed me 
in a false position, you could not comprehend how or why. 
Henceforth I shall call you my best friend. I need friends. Evi- 
dences are before you to prove such need.'’ 

“Friendship! How readily your sex deals out to ours the dry 
crust, when they refuse us tlie full banquet. Was ever mortal 
who loved, content with the substitute, even though he had to 
succumb to it? No; either love or hate. No middle state 
’twixt you and me.” 

“ I am sorely perplexed. I can not hate. I linger, while you no 
longer restrain ni«. I believe I await some assurance, some sweet 
word of friendship, to exist upon. Will you not promise to think of 
me xmrely as a sister, or as one who would make any sacrifice to 
serve you ? ” 

“You talk of sacrifice. You cast away, for mere conventionalitys 
sake, such love as mine. The like may never be vdthin your reach 
again.” 

“ You never saw me, except in this haunt of sin. How can the 
feeling for me be pure, when all else, even the motive that brought 
you here, is base ? ” 

“ Eunice, a passion arising, sudden as a meteor’s fiash, may be- 
come a fixed and intense flame, existing through life, to death, con- 
suming us at last. You know not what love is, in its earthly and 
sentient interpretation. Hate me, if you jfiease.” 

I believed at the moment that he really felt deep regret at parting 
from me. (Oh, woman ! half of your fa ux-2xiiit< are committed out 
of pure pity.) 

“ I hope I never will know such love. Twould be well if you 
could realize the power of a passion too pure and perfect to be sul- 
lied or merged into baser ones. Give me any work, however haz- 
ardous. Send me amid pestilence or death. Requii’e any proof of 
what I can dare to do for one who loves me, I'U do it readily. But 
my debasement shall never prove my asseveration.” 

“ Farewell, then. Y"ou do not say vou will ever think of me 
kindly ? ” 

“ M}" darling, your beaut}' ‘ of the Grient ’ has driven my Avits 
away. 1 believe you do loA'e me. To tell you truly, I know that you 
Avill fall upon my breast, and shelter there, ere long, as naturally a.s 
Avater seeks its level. I would not have you here in this atmosphere 
of crime. You are beset Avith many snares; therefore, for your 
safety, I shall appear to control your movements. AIIoav me to do 


164 


BERENICE. 


so. To all appearances, you are mine! Yon object? I cannot 
save you then, nor will I endeavor to do so.” 

“I do not understand why I should appear to have fallen so low.’’ 

“ That you may not be offered to others less scrupulous and en- 
tirely regardless of your antipathies. Have you realized that you 
are a prisoner, at the mercy of a wicked man ? This house is iso- 
lated. If you were in the desert of Gobi, aid would be more likely 
to reach you, than here.’^ 

I realize my j)eril. Y"ou w ill help me ? Oh, do 1 You will de- 
vise some means of escape ? Will you ? ” 

He stood for a moment in thought, and at last answ^ered: 

“ What does it signify ? you will be mme. I will save you. Why 
should I not, when my reward is certain. We leave the room to- 
gether. A harmony of j^impose exists betw^een us. Your hand — 
that touch, so warm, so elastic. Act as I direct. You will? Speak to me!” 

“ Yes; explain. AYhat am I to do?’^ 

“I visit you; no matter when, admit me without hesitation, as one 
wlio had a right to seek you when he chose.” 

I asked with severity of tone, “ Why must I do this?’’ 

Because I would like to save you now% from sin, and protect you, 
if you Avill allow me to do so, all your life.” 

“ You would teach me to sin, rather than others should do so. Is 
not that nearest the tmth ? You have bargained, you say, for the 
right. Let me draw’ a compailson; We catch a bird, and if, wliile 
holding it in our grasp, poor panting, frightened thing, we are 
moved to pity; a softness of the heail comes o’er us. We set it 
free. Can our right to do so be questioned ? Release me from my 
bondage. Let me go hence.’’ 

“ Will you go with me ? If you will, I can save you. He w’ould 
sink you to the low’est depths of sin, for money. To insuic 3’our 
safety, leave the house with me.” 

“Rather than stay in it, I w’ould go with you; but I am too agi- 
tated now’, to decide.” 

(I had a sudden project, conceived to insure my safety.) 

He continued: “ Y^ou w^ould be surprised, w’ere you a Parisian, to 
know’ what persons resort here. Stately dames, in flashing jew^els, 
rusthng silks, and soft velvets. The last house in this row is an in- 
teresting one ; its rooms never vacant, not one hour in the tw’entv- 
four. They play all day; they play all night.’' 

“And this w’hole row is liis ? ” 

“ Aye, and many more rows in Paris. He is rich. His leading 
trait is availce, which bilngs a thousand others with it, to make the 
round of his wicked life complete. You must stay here 110 longer 
than is possible.” 

“ Of course not. ’Tis w’ell I met you, instead of some remorseless 


BEEENICE. 


165 


wretcli, who woihd leave me with this man. My love has been for- 
tunate ; it has secured me a friend. You will save me ? ” 

“ Ah, Eunice, you are not true to your womanhood. One who 
knows your sex, says : ‘ The proudest of you Avould gladly give all 
the glories of the world for a moment of true love.’ How do you 
reconcile his remark to your fastidiousness ?” 

“ You misinterpret the idea. Love never seeks to degrade its ob- 
ject. The essence of true love is self-abnegation.” 

“ When circumstances which we cannot control, render impossible 
legal alliances, are others criminal ? Love never bargains, but freely 
gives, asking only its like in return.” 

‘‘ A loose school of morality for woman. The marriage tie 
may be gossamer thread — the marriage ceremony has been called 
an act of a pretty drama, where the heroine appears in becoming 
toilette of blonde and orange blossomsj nevertheless, it is, for so- 
ciety’s sake, indispensable.’’ 

‘‘Eunice, women strong in impulse, are reckless of conse- 
quences. They love, and do not allow us to doubt their love. 
Ah, you are not one of these!’’ 

“Every one has assailable moments. Woe to him who 
makes the one of woman’s weakness that of her fall. Supreme 
abhorrence supplants transitory passion. What can make 
amends tor the loss of self-respect? For his power abused, she 
detests him more even than she does herself, if that be possible.’’ 

“And does he love her any the less? If you think so you mistake.” 

“ I think with Thackeray, that men serve women kneeling ; 
when they get on their feet they go away.” 

“ You are suspicious of us. In your remarkable beauty you 
have a surety, when you escape from this man, you may make 
your own terms. You may become a wife, but are all wives 
happy ? I know many that are not so. Suppose, as ’tis said, 
that only once in every life, comes its blessing — if we cast it 
from us, are we not unjust to ourselves ? Marriage does not 
often create love. YMu may have an honored name and yet 
really be dishonored. Ah, Eunice, none will love jmu as I, were 
a thousand idle ceremonies muttered over. Our intercourse 
would not be more sacred than with love and lack of formality. 
Y^oiir good angel will leave you heart-hungry — trust her not ! 
Angels ! Let me use the poet’s words as mine to you : 

‘ Oh, who above the clouds, like me, shall love thee? 

A glorious seraph in his happy lot ? 

Wings has he ?— he has beauty far above me. 

The gift to love like me— that has he not. 

Unto his holy breast, earth’s love is vain ; 

The bliss of his high heaven is of his choice. 

While I am bound to thee in joy or pain ; 

‘Tis I alone can answer to the voice.’ ” 


1C)G 


BEKENICE. 


Seraphs have no sympathy with mortal love. Yours is an 
earthly passion, but as it is the best you have to give, 1 thank 
you for it.'’ 

“ To leave you here, obstinate, incredulous girl, would be a 
moral death, i will free you to-morrow. Alter that, when you 
are out in the world, keep the secret of your having been an in- 
mate of this house. What will come of your love will be seen. 
We cannot meet as strangers. The future rests with you, 
Eunice. Here we part, sweet one. Adieu !’’ He was gone. 

The astrologer gave me a diabolical smile as I passed him. 
Dissimulation was impossible. My eyes flashed their supreme 
contempt. He could not misinterpret me. ^‘To morrow!” Will 
it be wise to trust the issue of to-morrow to him ? iS^o, no I 
Who loves danger shall perish in it.” 


('HAPTER XI. 


LETPEK FROM EUNICE TO RUTH. 


Paris, Rue de , 

Ma Chere RidJi: — M the hrst gleam of day, I attired myself in my 
plainest garments, put the jewels (presents from the astrologer) in a 
bureau drawer — with a letter of recrimination. Withering, scath- 
ing, its contents. I locked the drawer and kept the key, that he 
would not discern my purpose in time to act upon it. Under the 
mantle of religion, gilded prayer-book in my hand, I started foiih. 
Meeting the astrologer at the gate, he asked if I were going to church 
so early. 

“ Yes, uncle,’’ answered I, so naturally; “ early impressions are 
lasting. You know I was brought up by the good sisters. At every 
blessing I receive, I ask for another one immediately. Our heavenly 
Father never turns a deaf ear to my beseechings.” 

There was no hesitation or confusion in my tone. I had been 
preparing speeches and answers all night, to every possible question. 

“ You fortunate girl ! You came to Paris a beggar, and in a httle 
while are the mistress of a Count. Few have done so well, I assure 
you.” 

It was a terrific struggle, but I acted well. I replied: 

“ This is a charming man, and licli I suppose. And a Count ! 
He didn't tell me that; too modest, I suppose.” 

“ Rich, of course he is. I look well to the main point. When I 
have such beauty as yours, I demand its equivalent. I heard fi*om 
my correspondent in America that my relative was very fair, and I 
said to Lisa, my aunt : ‘ That niece of yours wiU make her foiiune in 
Paris. We will bring her hither.” 

“ How good ! How disinterested ! Shall I ever be. able to repay 
you?” 

“ To know that you are weU fixed in life is aU I desme.’’ 

“ God will reward you, if to me it is impossible. But I may ben- 
efit you. With this wealthy alliance it will be in my power.” 

“ Where will you reside ? You could remain here, if the Count 
desires to do so, and you prefer it.” 

“ That is not decided; it will be to-day. The matter is left to my 


168 


BEKENICE. 


choice. 'Which in jill France is most pleasant of places, think you?'" 

“ One is not troubled here Muth moralists or espionage. If ’twere 
not that tlie Count’s wife lives here nearly all the time, 'twould he 
the very place for you.” 

“ Wife ! Is he married ?” 

“ Yes. Why that is no matter. Y^et if you lived in the city it 
might conliict. Some wives are not well behaved when casual meet- 
ings occur. Large as our Paris is, antagonistic persons drift against 
each other in the great human tide.” 

I as stunned for a moment. I even sat down on the ste2)s to re- 
cover from the shock. My j^rayer book reminded me of my 2>i’oject. 
I must speed on my way now; I dare not betray my feelings. 

“ His being married matters little,’’ said I. “ So trivial is it to the 
(^)unt that he forgot to mention it. The Countess is some ugly, dis- 
agreeable creature, whom he can not be content with.” 

His last words: “ Ah, my neice is a sensible woman. No (jualins 
of conscience, no ijrudish ways has she !” 

It was early. The bells of the different churches rang clear in the 
resonant air. Few Avere stirring. Perhans some deAmtee repaiiing 
to church, or deliauchee aaIio had danced or drank aAvay the night, 
seeking those avIio Avere Aveary, Avaiting his comiiany. Every one 
stared at me, yet my singular one. 1 might be 

taken for Spanish or French. The jirayer book in my hands in the 
(‘arly of the day, ansAvered questions, but after church hours it 
attracted attention, I thought. Not knoAving Avhither to go, trusting 
to chance, I ke 2 :)t on. Wallcing faster Avhen I found myself the object 
of particular scrutiny, I reached at last the thronged and busy streets 
where every one Avas too intent on his oavii interests to notice me. 
( )n my AvaA' I entered churches, Avhose coolness and quiet allured 
me. I rested and prayed. SjAending about an hour in this way and 
in admiring the lAaintings and architecture, I Avent out again into 
the wilderness of jAeojAle. The vastness and isolation of a great city 
had never struck me until iioav. Domes, sjAires, toAvers Avere around 
me; the square one of Notre Dame I recognized by illustrations I 
liad seen at home. The Tuilleries and Louvre by the same recol- 
lections. When the sun had jAassed meridian the time had seemed 
very short; the bustling, changing scene made me forget itsjAassing. 
A faintness coming over me I remembered that I had not broken 
fast. Not a f<ou had I in my jAossession. UjAon my finger I had a 
ring worn to a mere thread. I thought of giving this for a cuja of 
milk and a morsel of bread. DcAubtfully, timidly I offered it. The 
bargain effected, I had a bountiful repast, and no questions to an- 
sAver or evade. Thus refreshed I felt a neAV life in my flagging 
frame. But at this ^^oint of my Avandering tAvo facts became a]Apa- 
rent: First, that night Avas coming on, and I un^ArejAared for it; sec- 


BERENICE. 


16^1 


ond, that two men had tracked my footsteps the whole day. At 
first I rejected the supposition, but now at this late hour there was 
no mistaking their designs. When they got quite near one would 
have supposed them entirely unaware of my existence; but they 
never lost sight of me. No doubt remained; they were emissaries 
of my uncle or the Count. How was I to evade them ? AVhere find 
shelter for the night? 

It would not be Avise to deliberate many minutes. I must act 
(juickly. The last rays of the sun were dying away in the sky. Be- 
fore me lay an immense garden — a public pleasure ground —filled 
with ladies and children. I entered, and sat down to think what I 
should do — my stratagies falling to the ground, as impracticable, 
the moment they Avere made. At a little distance from me in the 
garden Avas the esj^wnage. I changed my seat, hoping the foliage 
Avould tonceal me, and that unobserved I might pass out into the 
street again. They moA’ed as I changed position, keeping me in 
sight. The garden was fast becoming deseiTed. My perplexity in- 
creased. A desperate thought crossed my mind. A gentleman, sit- 
ting near me, had been absorbed in reading. I Avould appeal to him 
for protection. HaAung had full time to examine his face as he sat 
intent on his papers, and to decide Avhether I could safely be so fa- 
mihar, I decicled. The face ansAvered my question favorably, espe- 
cially Avhen I stood before him and he fixed his clear, honest eyes, 
upon me, Avhich said, “ You may trust.” (There are many eyes,. 
Ruth, that jfiainH say you can or you can not.) 

He Avas neither young nor old. Not handsome, Avhen you com- 
pared him with the Count. As he arose to greet me, he exhibited 
a fine, stalwart form — muscular, mihtary in its erectness. Somehow 
the Count sank into insignificance, morally and physically, at sight of 
this man. I trembled very much, and I knoAv 1 grcAV paler, as I 
sj^oke : 

“ Sir, I am a stranger, and need protection. I have ventured 
to ask yours.” 

He answered me in English. He had detected the accent in 
my poor French. Nothing could have suited me better than to 
express myself in my OAAm beloved language. 

He signified his desire to serve me. I told him that the per- 
sons who Avere now moving farther off, were watching my move- 
ments, and that I wished to escape their notice. He glanced to- 
Avard them significantly, saying : 

Certainly, madam, I will protect you. Pass your arm through 
mine. Let me see you safely to your home.” 

‘‘ Home ! ” What a humiliation to be forced to acknowledge 
that I had none. I thought it would kill me. After hesitation and 
confusion, I managed to reply, watching the effect : 

n 


170 


BERENICE. 


yir, 1 am a stranger, and at present have no home,’' 

He very politely repressed his feeling of surprise. 1 contin- 
ued : 

A relative brought me to this country from America. He 
was a stranger, though a relation. I have been deceived in him. 
He is a wicked man. He seeks my destruction. I fled from his 
house this morning, and know no one in Paris.’- 

“ Not a friend in the city ? That is very sad.’’ 

“Yes, to be homeless and friendless in the world is still worse; 
but I would gladly go back to America. I wish I had never 
left it.” 

“ Poor girl, you are so young, so” — 

He stopped abruptly, for the wretches had passed within a few 
feet of us. He observed them ; his belligerent movement 
alarmed me. I spoke hurriedly, bringiug him to the present 
emergency, to save him from a street broil : 

“ Sir, if you would serve me, I beseech you, take me hence 
quietly, and, of all things, avoid observation.’’ 

He offered his arm again, made no farther demonstration, and 
we walked rapidly away from the garden, without seeing more 
of the men. 

He called the first carriage that he saw. I unhesitatingly en- 
tered, without questioning why. After riding two or three miles, 
we alighted near the garden again. We had taken a circuitous 
journey to baffle our reconnoiterins; iiarty. AYe entered a small 
but neat-looking building, with a little grass plat in front. The 
first word he had spoken since we left the garden, was at this 
moment : 

“ Here you will find shelter and protection for the night. In 
the morning I will see you, and by putting our wits together, we 
may shape out iffaiis for you. May you have, my fair friend, 
pleasant slumbers. Be not in the least timid. If any nervous 
fears arise, for all ladies are more or less timid, tap ever so 
lightly on this door. I am very wakeful; I will hear.” 

He drew back the curtain which concealed the door, to show 
me where it was. 

“ You observe the door; it is locked, and you upon your side 
of it, have the key. Now, do not fear, mademoiselle” — 

“ Thank you, I feel quite assured ; but this is your room, and 
I am depriving you of it. I hate to do this.” 

“ It is mine, but there is no deprivation in leaving it. The 
next, its counterpart, is vacant and at my service. And, believe 
me, it gives me great pleasure to serve a lady.” 

With a bow as respectful as it possibly could be, he left me 
alone. 


BERENICE. 


171 


How unlike the Count ! ” I said to myself, wliile be was 
speaking. Quite a different specimen of the genus— man! 

As soon as the door closed after him, my self-control gave 
way. I sat down and cried, hysterically, stifling my sobs in the 
pillow, lest the next room might hear them. In my tears my 
soul ascended to the high throne ; in my grief were passionate, 
earnest prayers. Ye who have wept thus, know the relief, the 
confident and confiding feeling that succeeds the transport of 
sorrow. I seemed to place my hand in my Savior’s, saying, 
“ Lord, lead me, save me ! ” 

This prayer brought to me the wants, earthly ones, that would 
to-morrow pr 6 ss upon me heavily. 

What was I capable of doing ? Work I I was willing to do 
that, though the foretaste of it at the asylum had been worse 
than death. But then I was cold and hungry. It struck me, 
what the Count said, as being truth, that if any one knew whence 
I came, all doors would be closed against me. “We cannot 
touch pitch and not be defiled.” I had lived for months in that 
house of iniquity. I must begin with deception. I could never 
let this new found friend know whence I came. What if they 
should find me and drag me back? An uncle’s right might be 
indisputable. Was he not my guardian. Even if he were a bad 
man such plea would not save me from him. Was it not best to 
assume another name ! My own had been disgraced. My hand- 
kerchief with my initials upon it suggested the thought of choos- 
ing one with the same — E. R. I pondered a long time to find 
one. Ernestine Rossmere — then, in future, that is my name. In 
the morning I must be prepared with my answers. How unfor- 
tunate that, to one who had believed and trusted me, I could 
not be truthful. Dare I tell him that I have lived in that infa- 
mous house, and of my adventures in it. Reason says, “No, no, 
110 ! he would think you a lost, degraded girl.” W’^ould that it 
were morning to decide my future. He will suggest a method of 
livelihood. He looks benevolent and wise. He, perhaps, sup- 
poses that I am a well educated iiersou. What a shame this su- 
perficial knowledge they give us at school. Knowing one or two 
things thoroughly, I might impart to others those one or two 
things, but a dip into this fount and a dip into the other with only 
a bare moistening of the lips in any, what does it avail ? Now, 
I adore music. I might have been a jiroficient in it for I 
had talent, but I did not persevere, and no one said I must. Let 
me run over a tew chords uiiou this magnificent instrument open 
to invite me. How sweet the tone ; how loud. It will disturb 
him ! I wonder if he is a musician ? Here are heaps of music ; 
a flute, too ; and a violin ! Of course he belongs to some band. 


172 


BEEENICE. 


I look for the bass viol. He may be, too, a critic. From tliis 
surmise I conclude that it is well, no more this evening, to touch 
the keys, alluring as they are. What a glorious instrument. So 
different from those 1 have practiced upon. It is very deep, very 
loudj it frightens me in the stillness! I fear I did wrong to 
play tc-night. May 1 not recklessly have awakened some one 
who ought to sleep ? How cosy this room is. This snug bed 
with the crimped pillow-slips — it looks jtiunty and well cared for. 
Truly, one would think it the chamber of some fair maiden, but 
for the absence of all ‘hnake-ups,’^ powders, or braids, or ribbons^ 
and the smallness of the mirror. I might add the smoking cap 
hanging there, then the meerschaum and cigars. The embroi- 
dered slippers are certainly a little larger than Cinderella’s. This 
man has a foot. Here are books scattered around. I cannot be 
comimsed to read them. But his name is within them. Who is 
he? 1 shall see. How practical I am, turning every circum- 
vstance to advantage. Balked! -No name in any. Names evi- 
dently erased. Who knows but what my friend may havecause^ 
as I, for living incognito. 

After soliloquy, observation and speculation were exhausted, 1 
slept soundly. I had not long arisen when a tap at my door an- 
nounced the entrance of a servant with a salver upon which was 
a delicious breakfast, sent with “the gentleman’s compliments.’’ 
Need 1 say it was devoured with a school girl’s appetite. (Oh^ 
Ruth, don’t you remember what hungry children we were ?) 
Shortly after came the ordeal, the promised interview. My friend 
knocked at the door — not a light tap by any means. There was 
an individuality in this as in his every action ; and they were ou 
a large scale. After entering and bidding me good morning, I 
suppose to give me time to overcome my embarrassment, he sat 
down to the piano and rattled away in such suri^rising dashes of 
melody — torrents, cataracts, thunders, it brought to my mind. 
It was a grand display of mastership, but I know he was above 
intending it as such. He turned suddenly towards me, smiled 
blandly and asked me how I had slept in my strange quarters. 

“Soundly,” replied I, “after I composed myself, but that was 
not until very late. I was trying half the night to determine 
upon a method of obtaining a livelihood in Paris.” 

“You should have slept one night, at least, after such torture 
as yours of yesterday ; the next night, or the next, would have 
been early enough to bother your brain with the future.” 

“And in the meantime ?” 

“Yes, I know what you would say, but I say that in the mean- 
time you might have rested here safe, as if I were your brother, 
or rather your father, for by the difference in our years I might be.*^ 


BERENICE. 


173 


•^Father I’’ reiterated I, laughingly. You are not old enough 
or venerable enough for that. As a brother, you might be taken 
under consideration.” 

The slight i)leasantry of mine set him off in his happiest mood. 

^‘Well, then,” said he, “I am your brother. Do we look alike? 
Oive a wide berth to your fancy and pronounce it a likeness. I 
am your great, gaunt, ugly brother. Or have it that each of us 
resemble a different parent. You have your mother’s soft, dark, 
dreamy, Italian eyes, and I am my father’s very image. Seri- 
ously, never were more perfect opposites. Y^ou of the sunny 
South, I of the cold lands of snow and glaciers ; scarcely would 
we be taken for the same race.” 

‘^Admitted our kinship,” said I merrily, “while it suits the state 
of affairs — I needing a brother — we are united in fraternal bond. 
Now, brother, if you can devise some plan by which I may ob- 
tain a home, my gratitude will be eternal as my life. Oh, my ! 
what a mistake! As my future and spiritual life, I meant. 
Work is what I want. I am no sluggard.’^ 

“I know that from your quick, nervous movements. Restless- 
ness and idleness are incompatible. What can you do, madam f 
Ah, no ! my sister ! I had forgotten my part, you see. We must 
rehearse often.” 

“Nothing well, but many things poorly. This is what I have 
been finding fault with myself about.” 

“Y"ou have an education, I perceiv^e, by your conversation, and 
also by your very intellectual face.’' 

“I thank you,’' said I playfully bowing my head. “As to my 
face, what it is or is not, I cannot decide, you see that, but my 
attainments are not so plain to you. My education is very, very 
limited.” 

“You play well,’' and he glanced at the piano. 

“Not very well. How do you know that I play?’' 

“By hearing you last night. Your touch is fine. It would be 
well for you to teach music; i^erhaps the best course you could 
pursue.” 

“I ? Impossible I” 

“You want confidence in your own power. Certainly you were 
years securing the knowledge of music you have, and yet I do 
uot doubt that you were an apt pupil.” 

“Truly, it did require years, and I was thought to be apt.’' 

“Well, will it not take years for those whom you would teach 
to acquire the same knowledge f ’ 

“ It would, indeed 1 

“ And could not, in that time, you be progressing, keeping always 
lar in advance of your pupils V ” 


174 


BERENICE. 


“ It does seem possible. I might teach, but I am at a loss to know 
how to begin.-'^ 

“ Begin as j^our instructors began. There is no better guide than 
your own recollections of your own early lessons. We may aU turn 
teachers in this Avay. An}dhing we try to do we can do. Now^ tell 
me, my sister, of something to prevent you from teaching music, or 
auAdhing else you have leaimed.’’ 

“ Nothing — only the knowledge of my superficiahty.’^ 

“ Practice makes perfect, and you need stipulate to teach none but 
those who know less than you.” 

“ Another obstacle arises; will any one gWe me employment — an 
entire stranger without references, knowledge of antecedents, noth- 
ing to recommend me ?” 

“We can but try — lam not a Parisian, which you plainly see, 
though business detains me here at intervals, sometimes for months 
at a time. The family with Avhom I board are in w^ant of a gov- 
erness who is versed in the English language. You may enter it at 
once. Your being unknown Avill be no objection, or rather no hin- 
drance.” 

“ Are they in this house ? ’’ 

“No; this is my lodging house, wdiere I wTite, read and spend 
most of my idle moments. My pastimes are my flute, Auolin and 
piano, and also, in more contemplative moods, my books.’’ 

“ Harmless indeed ! But this drug that you use so freely — they 
say is a deadly enemy that steals away one’s brain.” 

“ What, my cigars ! my meerschaum ! Without those Avhat were 
life ?” 

“ You have no family ? ’’ 

“ Oh, no ! said he, smihng, “ though I might in age, at least, be 
a grandfather.” 

“Why dw*ell upon your age ? I will not feel at ease in your pres- 
ence if I am once impressed with the idea that you are an old man. 
As it is, you seem young. Do remain so, for my sake.’’ 

“ To make you trustful I spoke of my age ; to have you think my 
friendship disinterested.” 

“ AVhy may not the friendship of the young be so ? ” 

“ Simply because in them (circumstances tending thereto) the sub- 
lime feehng of friendship degenerates too frequently into love.” 

“Would this be degeneracy ? I .thought love the most sublime, 
self-denying of all passions.’’ 

“You mistake; ’tis the most tyrannical, exacting, selfish and 
treacherous of emotions. Madam de Scudery says: 

“ Of all human passions, love is the one that most deranges all 
om- intellectual faculties, throw^'s the soul in the utmost disorder, and 
makes us commit the most egregious follies. It is difficult to dis- 


BERENICE. 


175 


tinguish a lover fi'om a madman, the action of both bearing so strong 
a resemblance.’^ Listen; have patience; she gives us much of this 
subject. “If reason be the greatest of all blessings, the loss of it 
must be the greatest calamity. Hence must the passion of love be 
an evd which w*e should endeavor to avoid.” 

“ I cannot refute Madam de Scudery’s assertion, but venture to 
say that when she wrote this her wings had been badly scathed in 
the flame. But my brother, my friend, I was taught that ‘ Time 
and tide wait for no man.’ We are aUoAving one to set in to the 
shore, the other to shp by. Think of our imprudence. When will 
you see your friends that are likely to give me employment ? 

“ This morning.’’ As he arose he said mischievously, “My sister, 
I know not your name.” 

“ How forgetful in me ! My name is Ernestine Rossmere.’’ 

He looked doubtingly, I thought, though I had answered mthout 
a tremor or change of color. 

“ A pretty name ! You are an American, and have been here four 
months, and do not like your relatives. These are facts; there are 
also shght fictions in the story to be told, to represent your case. 
You must be some one whom I have known or heard of before. 
Would you object to telling me what state vou are fr’om. North or 
South ? ” 

“ One of the Gulf states.” 

“Well, I might have known you, had chance permitted. You shall 
hear of my success, on the contrary, in three hours. Until then, be 
tranquil. If this fails, there are other opportunities. You need not 
be anxious. My sister, I bid you good morning.” 

“I never felt more at ease in my hfe than vdth this new fnend. It 
did not require long to write to you. My letter is written, and now 
’tis time to expect him directly. Have I acted msely, Ruth ? I 
think I have. Pray often for your own Eunice.” 

“ P. S. — He knocks. I feel as if I should die. I never knew my- 
self to be a nervous person before.” 


CHAPTER XIL 


X Paris, near Tuilleries. 

Dear, dear Ruth: — He came, as I expected, saying, as lie enterec"*, 
even before I could ask liim to be seated: 

“ Miss Rossmere, I regi*et to say that my errand was delayed too 
long. The lady engaged a teacher to-day, 2:)revious to my applica- 
tion in your behalf. However, another opportunity offers. We shall 
know of it positively to-morrow.” 

“ To-morrow ! How can I contain myself till then ? How shall I 
occupy my time ?” 

“At the window, looking at passers-by. A curious study it is. 
Tiy it for a day.’’ 

“A bii-d caged and beating its wings to pieces I shall be.” 

“ Not at all. There are neither bars nor gilded wires. Go foidh 
and enjoy the sights of Paris. I will accompany you; or, if you 
prefer it, read to while away the dull hours. Let me show you my 
small collection of books.” 

He opened the green-cuiiained article of furniture known as a 
cabinet. To me there seemed to be within it a large collection. 

“ What shall I select for you ?’’ 

“ Something light and merry. Not theolog}”, be sure.” 

“ A piquant volume of travels — quite new. See ! the leaves even 
uncut. Bye the bye, they are from your own clime. South Land.” 

“ Who is the author ?” 

“ Incog. Some one who says in his preface : ‘ ’Tis a pity that your 
daughters of wondrous beauty must so soon grow old and fade.’ ” 

“And isn’t it? Would it not be pleasant to live on, unsullied by 
the simoons and siroccos of time and grief ? Who would not be hke 
the Marebs, perpetually lovely ? ’ 

“ The longevity of the Marebs is an unnatural fable. MTio would 
desire it to b6 real? Beauty is prized chiefly because it is perish- 
able. The season of unsubstantial, butterfly repasts we enjoy the 
more keenly, because we know it to be brief. Bus}" in the pursuits 
of life’s rewards, we hurry through the journey.” 

“ Thinking ever of its limited duration we could not be gay. I 
rather think we butterflies sip our sweets, flit about, never pausing 
to think that the frosty breath of Winter is to finish our career.” 


BERENICE. 


177 


“ My young pliilosoplier (and sister) does it occui* to you that 
there may be natures less volatile than yours, not always poised on 
dowers, or on the wing, that tire of glare and sunsliine, and stop to 
tliink of how the end of a day’s chase tnIU turn out ?” 

‘‘ You suppose that I am a moth or a butterfly, seeking no- 
thing but sensuous gratifications. You take literally all my 
ephemeral nonsense.” 

“ Is it not possible that I think, though I may trouble no one 
with my thoughts. Can one tell the depth of a stream by the 
ripples and sunbeams that play upon its surface ! They are no 
revelation of what lies beneath” — 

I stopped, for I found myself raising my voice, and betraying 
an unwarrantable interest in his remarks and opinions. 

A fine picture, that, hanging opposite,” said 1, changing the 
subject, quick as thought. 

“You like Rembrants asked he, with a pleasant ring of 
voice. 

Abrupt transitions — bold reliefs.” 

“ Ah, yes ! ” he replied ; “ and for me, flashings of light on 
the cheerless backgrounds. I like meteoric visitations. Your 
coming to me, a merry sprite, was one. Believe me, fair lady, 
Twill be dark indeed, when you go.” 

My coming is scarcely worth talking of, when I shall be gone 
so quickly.” 

“ Gone ! Do not speak of it. I hate to contemplate the fact.” 

‘‘Yes, gone ! I must repeat it. Moreover, I will be far away, 
tor, as soon as practicable, I leave Paris. I wish I had never 
come to it.” 

“I shall be miserable.” 

“ Miserable ! You amuse me. Miserable, indeed ! But if you 
were, misery must be easier to bear than monotony — the fearful 
dead calm. I lived in one for years. For me, ‘ let the cauldron 
boil and bubble.^ In the meantime I stir it, and work away at 
it, with might and main. All I dread is watching the simmer- 
ing and seething pot, until it boils.” • 

“Our tastes assimilate — an augury of our future friendship 
It cannot be that we shall be parted soon 

“Did you not tell me just now, of a situation to be at my ac- 
ceptance, by to-morrow f Gracious me ! Do you not realize the 
necessity of my leaving here ? ” 

“ You think it necessary. I will not gainsay your word ; but 
then, we will meet very often afterwards, will we not ?” 

“ I have no objection to the continuance of our acquaintance- 
ship ; but, truly, I would like to leave the house to-day. People 


178 


BERENICE. 


will think strange of my being here. I fancy every one about 
the place wonders who I am.’’ 

“ I am a stranger to them. They suppose you to be my sister, 
which you are ; that is, to me.’" 

How brotherly his smile was, at that moment ! 

Unlike the handsome Count, in look and manner. How dif- 
ferent his influence ! There was no Lotus in the draughts I 
sipped with him. 

He drew his seat closer beside me. I hid my embarrassment 
by turning over the leaves of the volume he had placed in my 
hands, not noticing a word therein. Really, coming down to 
ugly facts, I was looking continually at my soiled cuffs. As a 
continuity of the realistic and common-place train of thoughts, 
came the condition of my collar : it must be dreadfully soiled. 
At the thought, my neck flushed. It would not have surt)rised 
me to see my hands redden to my finger tips, under his gaze. 
Upon my wrists were deex)er insults than manacles. How could 
my fingers trip over the ivory keys, as he at this moment desired 
and implored? Yet I must comply, it was so small a request for 
any one to make. He was not a common and actual acquain- 
tance, but my champion, my friend, my host. I played, but 
badly, thinking all the while of my serious and irremediable 
misfortune. No wardrobe! What greater calamity could befall 
a good, pure woman ? 

When I left the house of the magician the contretempx never oc- 
i.'urred to me. My Mend must have imagined the blush and embar- 
rassment sj^mpathetic with the thought of the comment, which I 
dreaded, upon my strange situation, for as I ceased jfiaying, taking 
up the previous conversation, he said: 

“ No, Miss Rossmere. You have only to look out at tlie crowds 
that pass continually, every one absorbed with himself, to be con- 
vinced that this is no locahtv for people to wonder who others are, 
or what may be their plans and purposes. A wide, surging ocean is 
this Parisian life. Barks that sail over it meet or sight each other, 
and pass on, each one to a separate bourne, without further interest 
of when or how they reach a haven.” 

He did not interpret the blush. I rejoiced. There was a hideous 
reahty, a painful degradation, in what it sprang from. I thought it 
better to walk out, as my staying in the rooms had a clandestine 
look. Indeed, ni}^ position was a novel one. However, fearing I 
might, if I went abroad, meet my uncle or his emissaries, or the 
abominable Count, I dechned going. I reasoned thus: “I have 
certainly no light to imperil my Mend by a street broil.” I would 
take the safer way — remaining witliin doors, which really was no 
punishment, rather a pleasure. He had a manner of putting me 


BERENICE. 


179 


quite at ease, and making me feel reconciled to my situation. Take 
a view of my case. I was in a house, the inmates of which I knew 
notliing, and in the private rooms of a gentleman. AVhen he was 
not within them the hours were very long. I stood looking through 
the Venitians, wishing for the morn to bring me employment, and 
get me out of this stranger’s way. A person who appeared to be the 
portress of the place (an elderly woman) came to know if there were 
any commands for her — any errands to be performed. The gen- 
tleman had mentioned that, for some unaccountable reason, my 
trunks had been delayed. She could supply my most urgent wants. 
She had, from him, carte blanche for the purpose. She immediately 
spoke of my “ cuffs,’’ “ collars” and “ mouchoir.” I might wish them 
renewed. The store which would supply me was only a step or two. 
I hesitated; turned the matter over in my mind. I put down my 
pride and accepted the offer. In a short time there came a garcon 
Avith the required articles — nests of them. Rejoicing that he, per- 
haps, forthwith saved me from defeat. Soiled cuffs and collars! 
Who would have employed me ? My costume was not now at all 
objectionable, at least when I had brushed the dust from my black 
dress, and had mbbed up my bonnet, shaken out my veil, and 
placed it in folds within a thick book to iron it. After this I was 
(piite satisfied with my appearance. 

But I am wandering off' in uninteresting details, neA^er relating 
how I accepted the little attention of the plenipotentiary. In an- 
SAver to her query, I explained : 

“ As my trunks are in a very unsafe place, I am compelled to 
accept your generous offer, or rather the gentleman’s.” 

Mon Dieu ” she exclaimed, casting her eyes upAvard, in most 
piteous accents, (which I translate,) “ Trunk — two trunks, and all 
one’s clothes gone ! Hoav terrible a loss ! ” 

How deep her sympathy ! Tears were in her eyes. 

“ Owi,” I rephed, as I put my hand to my heart, trusting the ges- 
ture to convey my meaning rather than my poor French. I could 
afford to be humorous now, AAuth cuffs, collars, and a situation in 
prospective. 

Towards evening, my host returned, and gave positive indication 
of remaining to have a chat. In aU our intercourse, not a word had 
(h’ifted to any circumstance involving my preAuous existence. Had 
he seen me drop like Palladium from the skies, he could not have 
manifested less curiosity. A coarser person would have been on the 
alert to catch every word, and have set snares to make me betray 
myself — who I was, and where I came from; and, carrying out the 
metaphor, whether I had been, as Palladium, polluted by the touch 
of Electra. ]\Iany unfavorable constmctions he might have placed 


180 


BERENICE. 


upon my appearance in the gardens in that vagrant wav, jet he 
trusted me as if he knew me to he one of the vestals. 

“ You are reading,” said he as he entered, glancing at the hook. 
“Don’t let me interrupt you. Really, I only dropped in for a 
moment.’’ He stood irresolute, 

“ Oh, don’t go ! ’’ answered I, earnestly. “ I am not at all inter- 
ested in this hook. I will he, in your conversation. Ah, hj the hje, 
I have a favor to ask. Please oblige me hy starting earl}", about the 
situation. I am getting rather worried. The prospect of mj 
chances for the future is so uncertain.” 

“You might remain here longer — you shake your head. You 
seriously object ? You are determined to go ?” 

“ I am.” 

“Well, I will he off on the mngs of the morning. But to come 
down to facts. The sun rises earlier, by some hours, than those 
who may requu’e your ser\"ices. I have an’anged matters. A friend 
is to procure you an interview with your patron (in prospective). 
She will caU uj)on you, here, before twelve to-morrow, and I heheve 
you may he sure of the result.’’ 

“I shall sleep well, upon the hope; but please tell me what do 
they expect me to teach ? ” 

“ What I told them you could teach — music.” 

“Dear, oh dear! I teach music? Well, well!” 

“Grammar, also ” 

“ Why, I can scarcely tell a verb from a noun.” 

“ Mathematics. You approach Archimedes in your soundness 
there ?” 

“ Worse and worse. I hate the abominable study.” 

“ Mythology ?” 

“ I am interested in that.’’ 

“ You like it better than all others ?” 

“ Grecian history and mythology. I am carried away with it.’’ 

“ Make a point upon it. Stand, as in euchre. Always pretend to 
know a great deal. Always expatiate on w"hat you do know. Study 
at night that which you are expected to teach the following day — a 
double gain. You will by becoming a student be also a master.” 

“ Master ! MTiat a sliu- upon the name ! You save me. You, 
vise as Socrates and cunning as ^sop, by your counsel, extricate 
me from all dilemmas.” 

“ Wise as Nestor you mean. Socrates was a kind-hearted phil- 
osopher, not wise, but weak. Do you know that a woman ruled 
him ?” 

“ Xantippe ? AWien you come to think of the wiser and more at- 
tractive ones that offered him consolation, he was not such a suffer- 
ing person as he is represented to be. He could not have been 


BEEENICE. 


181 


tlisconsolate. He 'abounded in friends. Remember the fair ones 
who figm'ed at the ‘ Banquet.’ Perhaps if friends had been fewer, 
or better chosen, Xantippe would not have been the virago she was.” 

‘‘Likely not 5 but returning to educatioual affairs: Since you 
prefer Mythology to all other studies, I i)ropose questions — prac- 
tice tor your new vocation as teacher.” 

“A rehearsal ! Proceed ; I am willing.” 

“How would you get at the apples in the Hesperian garden ? 
Be very precise ; make no blunders; go over all the obstacles, 
note them, set them aside, or surmount them and bring me the 
apples.” 

“What a task you i^ropose ! First, 1 would bind Xerens. Is 
that right so far f ’ 

“Yes ! Go on. That achievement, great enough to boast of, is 
but the setting out upon the enteiqirise.” 

“Destroy Anteus.” 

“Good !” 

“Cross the intervening ocean in the cut) of the Sun-God, free 
I^rometheus from the insatiate bird that preys upon his vitals.’’ 

“Noble ! Grand ! You progress amazingly.” 

Here, becoming posed with metaphor and fable, in a quandary 
about the apples, 1 8 toi)ped to think. 

“If I enter the service of Atlas, as that far-seeing Prometheus 
advised, I shall have to hold the heavens, while he gets to the 
garden, my false move would be defeat.” 

“The guerdon ivould certainly be forfeited. While you have 
the weight of the world upon you he secures the prize.” 

“I know ! I have the plan all worked out. I’ll be obliging ; Pll 
take the burden, but I can complain of oppression, get Atlas to 
hold my world while I, a la Marchande make a pad Ibr my head. 
He will, out of gallantry, be compelled. to assist a lady. To do 
so, he necessarily drops the apples. Seizing them instantly, 1 
go on my way, and place them at your feet. Now, my brother, 
what think you % How do you like my manner of performing 
your mission 

“You have the fruit, but not fairly.” 

“Had I not unfair people to deal with You sent me to en- 
counter a monster (myth). What else would you have me do that 
is not written in fable ?” 

“Promise to think of me very often when you do not see me.” 

“How could I do otherwise "I You have been so kind, so con- 
siderate, so wonderful. Surely I am to see you often ; you said 
I should.” 

“For a while you may, but after a few months, I am going 
away from Paris, never, perhaps, to return. Be assured that 


182 


BERENICE. 


Miss Rossmcre will be unforgotten, even when I am with one fair 
as she ; one who interested me deeply, seriously, long ago. 1 
wish I could remain long enough to hear of the good fortune 
which awaits you. I can not help wishing also that, to facilitate 
my imrpose of serving you, you were really my sister.” 

^4f you were only my brother! • I haA^e no brother, no one. 
I am alone in the world. ' 

I was really overcome with emotion. A sudden sense of my 
loneliness ha^ at that instant i)ossessed me. How strange that 
I, the butterfly woman, was becoming sentimental in presence of 
a friend of a day. Neither of us spoke again for a considerable 
time. The spell of silence is hard to break when we have some- 
thing of deep moment to say and know of no words, can think of 
none, that will not mock our meaning with their unmeaningness. 
The merry vein of thought; the ludicrous side of life’s mishaps, 
returned not, that night, to either. With the depression of spirit 
and contemplative mood, reverence for my disinterested and 
honorable friend, was a vivid and predominating feeling. My 
eyes closed in sleep that night in sweet security from the Count. 
Oh, wondrous world! to think of its extremes of good and evil. 
Men were fashioned by one God ! How ? 

The morning set in with a heavy rain, defeating my projects for 
the day, and tending to keep me in my very odd and equivocal 
position. Rising early to deidore the state of the weather, Avhich 
would surely' keep within any one who was not compelled to go 
abroad bj' the inviolate law of necessity. A class thus con- 
strained was the Grisettes, with their pretty, dark eyes, short 
trim dresses, jaunty aprons, well-turned ankles, of which I had a 
view, in various specimens ; exhibited in escaping puddles and 
imdlets of the crossings. • This anatomical prospect must be the 
one iileasure or benefit derived from sloughs and muddy thorough- 
fares. Besides the Grisettes, were the ones of corresponding- 
status in the working world. A mere rexietition of the first, 
hatted and bearded, but otherwise not on a grander or more 
gigantic scale. 

The flower-girls, tripping along, with a grace born in all Par- 
isian women, anxious to reach the shelter, and the great mart of 
‘‘ Marche Aux Fleurs,” heljied to make out a pleasant and vniried 
spectacular, seen from a window, of a rainy morning, in Paris. 

Presently there came o’er the crossing, an odd-looking person- 
age, in a peculiar costume that, at home, would have created a 
furore^ or panic of astonishment, which, I fear, no effort of polite- 
ness would have controled. The wearer of this high Normandy 
cap, in a brown corsage o’er a full, en bon point figure, made so 


BERENICE. 


183 


in a greater degree by hooped skirts of liiisey, bedecked with 
showy jewelry and ornaments. 

This oddity rang at onr door. 

At every ring, I had been in a tremor, imagining tliere was 
an interest in every one of them for me. 

The lady whose toilette attracted me, proved to be the sister 
of her who made the important improvement in my costume the 
day before. She had just arrived from the interior of some 
canton on the Seine. There was a great amount of kissing and 
crying in the hall — ecstacies of joy, which really made me shed 
a tear or two. 

The lonely and desolate — in how mam' of life’s plainest ways, in 
lowest w’alks, in every day occurrences, are they kept in full and 
bitter consciousness of their isolation. Why, except you, my dar- 
ling Ruth, no one in the world would kiss me, or fold me in fond 
embrace, in gladness at my coming; not if, hke the daughter of Jairus, 
my Savior had called me from the tomb ! We are outcasts, or at 
least I am. 

Returning to my story, I must tell you that at eleven o’clock 
came a ring. It related to me. A note from a lady, whose name is 
of no consequence. She wrote that on account of the rain, she 
would postpone the engagement made by my friend and host, until 
to-morrow, when, weather permitting, she would “ attend Miss Ross- 
mere to Madame Cardave’s.” 

He came in at twelve. I handed the note to him, with a despond- 
ent air, saHng that even the wmds and clouds were my opponents. 

“For them,” said he, “ sisters, coadjutors, and friends, I have no 
reproach. With theii’ connivance I would get up a second deluge; 
aye, would I, and make it last until we both grew old.''’ 

This si^eech ended in a merry laugh to both. 

“ In the ark,” I answered gaily, “ ours would be rather an exclu- 
sive party, not like the one on Ararat. You would be Noah, I imag- 
ine ?” 

“ To be sure ! And you — nonsense ! I am too much of a patriarch 
for what I was going to say. Noah’s sister is your role. Was not 
she in the ark V 

“ The same play ! No suiq^rises, no denouemenf, ‘ sister,’ from the 
Oldening to the close of our acquaintanceship, and the drama.’’ 

“ Does your part fail to please you ?” 

“ Fail ! An entire failure. I am swept on in the deluge. If I 
am not saved by you, it follows that I shall perish in the waves. 
From the depths I hold up my arms. Noah, my brother, open the 
ai’k; admit me therein. I will be the dove. After the storm I will 
search for you the face of the verdureless creation for the olive 
branch — living with you, in peace and love, till death.” 


184 


BEKENICE. 


Led away b}' a niad-cap love of fun, I had made a daring thrust. 
AYhat if it had been the Count ? We women do certainly try good 
men, often beyond their strength— the bad we never tempt. We 
dare not. 

He fixed his eyes upon me, as if endeavoring to understand me, 
a scrutiny that brought a color to my cheek. I knew I had made 
him doubt me. Immediately I set about eradicating the impression. 
Surmises were evidently flitting across his mind. For a few mo- 
ments 1 became to him stately as Juno, cold as Diana. I answered 
his enquiring, si:)h'it-se arching gaze, with a fine result. He was 
brow-beaten, cowering, humiliated, before me. 

After this sortie, I became very staid and circumspect in my de- 
meanor. 

We can do and undo, in this way, demolish and then rebuild, at a 
glance, a frown or a smile. We are sldllful workers while we are 
heart-free. 

The rest of our interview passed off well enough — he amusing me 
by his odd ideas of vanous things. 

“ I nothing: knew of thee, 

And soon, perchance, ’twill be my part, 

As now thou art to be.” 

“ Ah !” exclaimed I, earnestly. “ The lines are true ones, explain- 
ing man’s uncertain and vacillating love — so unlike ours. When we 
love, we love forever. Eecreant, this is treason, sa^'ing the same 
words to all.” 

“ AVe love and suffer for our love, fail- lady, even as you.’’ 

“ Give me an idea, if you please, of the person whom I am to in- 
terview; I could then render my part in better f>aste. Is she fair — 
Juno or Titania?” 

“ A drama throughout, gotten up for your entertainment; one in 
which 3’ou are to soliloquize, and offer condolence to m3" quondam 
inamorata, upon 3"our relative x^ositions as reversed.’’ 

“ The old love displaced for the new chimera. Platonic love ! She 
ought to drown 3"ou in the Hellesx^ont, or in a river of bitter brine.” 

“ Her own tears, he3" ? It ma3" be that she mil, and after that 
ma3" come forgetfulness, good nature, and a new lover.” 

“ You think mth Festus, that ’tis folty to tell woman truths; the3" 
would rather live on lies, so the3' be sweet. I x^rotest, sir, against 
your treason, shifting allegiance fi’om one to another. In 3"our egre- 
gious vanit3", 3’ou meant to teU me that you were xdedged heart and 
hand, to another, bound hard and fast in cupid’s bonds to a lad3" 
who waits 3"Our return in some isle of the sea.’^ 

■ “On my honor, my most severe and exacting sister, I am a free 
man, a cold-hearted man, who does not yield to charms that 
create love. I regret the lack of power exceedingly.” 


BERENICE. 


185 


“How plain ! I would have instant revenge. Telling me blunt- 
ly he was not within my scope. I answered : 

“I can think of all Russians only in one way, knout in hand 
giving lessons of obedience to serfs. Who would expect one of 
you to have mercy, saying nothing of higher or tenderer feel* 
ings.’' 

He was disconcerted, I knew by his reply : 

“Really, my lair friend, 1 ask your mercy, as I am not respon- 
sible for my country’s barbarisms. I may not be cruel or tyran- 
nical. All Russians are not so, sulely.’’ 

“Forgive me, my brother. I make you Grand Commandant 
of the Russian army and its allies. Stoop to receive your order 
of ‘The Cross, said I, playfully fastening a faded ribbon upon 
his neck, 

“For thee, fair lady, I shall strive to win the crown which you 
promise by the ‘Cross.’ ” 

“A shivering subject for a wet day. Russia, snow, mountains,, 
and marches over them. You make me think of getting out my 
furs.” 

The play of words brought an annoying recollection. My last 
wardrobe — my sables, my ermines, with the astrolager. Poverty 
would seal my condemnation. My countenance must have be- 
trayed my per})lexity, for I found my friend looking fixedly at 
me. I imagined that he had been gazing at me from the time I 
had alluded to my furs. 1 verily believe that he defined my feel- 
ings by my blank look, as I realized that I had neither furs,, 
gauzes, nor intermediate textures to protect me from cold or 
nudity. My embarrassment was fora moment only. 1 threw 
it off, happilj^ taking up our conversation. 

“Forgive my light raillery, and allow me in gratitude and jus- 
tice to say, before we part, that you are not only a very polite 
person, but a noble and magnanimous one. What prevented you 
from thinking me an adventuress. I know not, or whether the 
idea has possessed ^mu ; if it has, your politeness in not betray- 
ing your thoughts is beyond all show of appreciation. I have no 
language to express my admiration and esteem and gratitude.” 

“Why, Miss Rossmere, know you not of a naivette in your man- 
ner, a purity in your clear eyes, that look one full in the face, and 
in which I gaze until I fear I become impertinent. This manner 
and glance would hurl the lie back, upon the mind that conceived 
it. Your case was not unlike that of thousands who are com- 
pelled to flee from lives, to which death would be preferable. I 
form no unfavorable conjecture of your antecedents. I seek to 
know nothing of your life that you hesitate to speak of. I be- 
32 


18 G BERENICE. 

‘Heve you are an angel in purity — nothing but yourself would 
shake that belief. 

I was not at all reconciled to the loss of my clothing. The de- 
privation in itself was not so great a trial as the subterfuges to 
which I would be brought. What plausible tale could I fabri- 
cate? How could I avoid prevaricating ? What woman would 
judge me favorably ? Poor and without clothing. Two sins 
pleading to Mrs. Grundy for pardon, yet drawing down her dire 
vengeance. Far better have owned the trousseau of a Countess, 
rand have created the wonder how a poor girl came to be its pos- 
sessor, than to have really ^^nothing to wear.^’. 


CHAPTEK XIII. 


LPITTER FROM EUNICE TO RUTH. 

Paris, Kue de . 

Ma Chere : — When I entered upon my new and responsible life 
as governess, I thought my nomadic existence to be over. Your 
letters could reach me ; my heart longed for them ; I was so 
friendless , I had lost faith in all persons here, except the gen- 
tleman who obtained for me the home, or the poor representa- 
tion of one, which I am about to leave. My occupation has 
been to impart polite learning to Ilortense, a miss of eight years, 
and Felise, a year or more her senior. (Confidentially, I had to 
teach myself at stolen intervals.) I wander off. I began to ex- 
plain how I came to be drifting about again. I would like to 
palliate my faults by words. I wonder whether I can with you. 
I fear you would think me materially changed. I am in manner, 
but not in heart. You would say, “How unnatural Eunice is.’' 
[Juuatural as belonging to one who was ever sincere, I admit — 
you know that. 

France talks with its eyes its hands and its shoulders. A paralytic 
Frenchman — I often think how impotent his existence would be. 
Pantomimists from the leading-strings to the gi*ave. I wHl ramble 
no more, but proceed to tell you more of the dear Mend of mine. 
He called the evening after I left his house, leaving a message for 
me, without desiiing an inteiview. My baggage would arrive in the 
morning. Baggage ! Was it to drop from the clouds ? My con- 
sternation at hearing of it must have exerted wonder in my inform- 
ant. 

When the world goes wi’ong with us, pride and sensibility are the 
veriest torments, dragging afr our heart-strings, warning us of dan- 
ger often when none is near. They now wliispered, “ He has traced 
out antecedents for the purpose of restoring to you your baggage.’’ 
Entirely overcome with the humiliating thought, I retired to my 
room, there in quiet to calm my heari and rest my aching head. 

My baggage arrived, as he had foretold. With astonishment I 
beheld it. The initials were placed upon every article of the new 
and complete ladies’ wardrobe. The feeling of desolation, hitherto 


188 BERENICE. 

existing, passed off. I had one — thoughtful of my comfort, one dis- 
interested — friend. 

A tasteful and sensible modiste must have received from this won- 
derful man, carte blanche for the perfect outfit. I had no choice as to 
the acceptance of a gift which was to save me from enquiry, criti- 
cism, and vulgar comment. I hoped to find a note of explanation, 
why he had “ taken the liberty,” and when I should behold him 
once more. I searched for it in vain. Then I concluded, as I ex- 
amined the contents of the trunks, in detail, his apology, or justifi- 
cation, would have been coarse, indelicate. 

AUow me here to present Madame Cardave, the mistress of this 
splendid house : to me, entertaining as a museum, only that the ob- 
jects which amuse are not in statu quo, I would fancy it one. I gaze- 
and listen in open-mouthed wonder, at the changing show of jewels, 
fine di'esses, gay people, sad people, pretty people, and ugly people- 
I listen to the clattering of tongues, and the soft notes of the piano, 
guitar, fiute, violin, all in concert, often half the night. The house 
is, when without company, a tomb. The lady abroad, the contrast 
and the reaction following, are appalling to me, a stranger. At such, 
times I dread to be alone. Of late, this feeling, the fear of my own 
thoughts, possesses me in an alarming degree. 1 try to overcome it. 
When I read of many who have left theii’ “ footprints upon the sands 
of time,” and their memories green in loving hearts, whose happiest 
and most profitable hours have been spent alone, I try all the 
harder. 

Through the day my work occupies my thoughts, and yet 1 hate 
the thraUdom, the servitude, when others are free. Is it true? Am 
I a butterfly woman ? I fear I am. I found in my readings, a re- 
mark which touches upon what I have been telling you: “We aU 
have notions of a primitive state of equality; hence the germ of 
hatred between the little and the great.” I do not hate Madame 
Cardave, so far; yet I am not inclined to like her. I may differ one 
shade in thought, from Helietius, without being too presuming. 
The little (our class) do not hate the great, but they hate poverty,, 
an enemy which keeps them, by pricking with the tiniest straws, 
ever acliing and irritated. A wiser head than mine would be, if I 
lived and stored away, and stole froin others’ minds, treasures, until 
my locks were hoary, says, contradictorily, to a contemporary: “Pov- 
erty is not the daughter of the spirit, but the mother of shame and 
reproach.'^ Seriously, I do not see clearly the first idea. I grasp 
and hold the second. Was it not poverty that brought me to the 
brink of ruin ? — j^ou to Mount Marah ? What is your gain ? W'hat 
wlU be mine ? Ah, by that freak of fate, you have the love of Eiic 
Ethel; or, I hope you have. AVhat may be the blessed boon for 
me which charity has, keeping it under her thin mantle to be brought 


BEEENICE. 


189 


foiili so tardily ? I ma^* love and be loved. However, either way, 
let me not repine. 

I am very sinful. I have many a bitter thought. I fear I envy 
Madame Cardave. She is driving out now. I saw her pass this mo- 
ment, magnificently dressed, behind her Arabian horses, a present 
from the East. You should see them, their nostrils, their limbs, 
their ears ! Perfectly grand, with their glossy satin coats, and their 
proud step, and swift — my, how^ they fly ! How every one turns to 
look at them ! Besides the horses, Madame Cardave has jewels, 
silks, and laces. More than these, she has time — time, which she 
<iannot, with all her projects, use, without its dragging. I have 
scarce a leisure moment. She has the air of the Bois de Bologne, 
the glimmer of the Seine, the gay boulevards, the pleasures of all 
Paris. I sit in close rooms, poring over my tasks, trying to catch a 
breath of air, already attainted wflth the hot, unwholesome, poisoned 
vapors arising from the great metropolis. 

A month in the house has not afforded me a sight of its master. 
I asked why. My answer was clear as the Delphi Oracle, giving the 
mind an enigma to solve the one akeady too severely exercising it. 
It was to the purport that 1 might die at Cardave’s house and not 
spe him in it. The reply might mean that the distance of school 
room and nursery from his home perambulations made my meeting 
him an impossibility, as it might signify that he liked all places bet- 
ter than home. 

“ Speculation exhausts itself in fruitless efforts upon wfliat might 
be the hfe of a husband to keep him from home.” 

So my informant thinks. She has had years to investigate a sub- 
ject whicli deeply concerned her as a neglected wife. 

I admit, truthfully, the view of my life, in contrast with Madame 
Cardave’s, does not make me a better person. You wiU condemn 
me. Youi- nature has not the poisonous leaven of mine. I imagine 
I was born of some roving Zingarella. Yet I should not say aught 
of my mother. She must have been good, and even if she were 
not, she is dead. I only wanted to explain to you how I long for 
pleasure now. I could enjoy to the utmost tension of ner\'e and 
vein, life, excitement ! The drives behind the superb horses, the 
woods and the crowded streets; aye, with this young and elastic 
spirit, better than Madame Cardave. We must not crave the rich 
man’s pleasures, we children of sorrow% slaves to the despot. Cir- 
tnimstances, bringing in its unjust exactions, hard and engrossing 
duties, and with them temptations — apples of Eden. 

The rich have, at least, a choice, either to evade duty or to fulfill 
it. The poor must, of necessity, often against inclination, and in 
violation of nature’s laws, perform the work. 

The lady, wfrose turnout is the admiration of all who know* how to 


190 


BEKENICE. 


estimate pedigrees and escutcheons, has, as far as I can see, every- 
thing her heart craves. 

Our French teacher (a visiting one, remaining with us tw^o hours 
in the morning,) checks off my Enghsh lessons, making them tally, 
in translation, with hers. She has no easy task. I am far from being 
a scholar. Luckily for me, she has tact, and kindness besides. Her 
coming in of a morning is a sunny, sparkling lipple on the dull 
waves of toil. Teaching is monotonous. We do not reahze the re- 
sult of our work for so long. 

Hortense interests me deeply. Something in the child’s face is 
strikingly like one I have seen before; but wiiere ? when? I tax 
my brain to place it, but fail. 

Seeing Madame Cardave in the morning in undress, I change m3' 
opinion of her appearance formed by the soft shadings of rose-colored 
ciudains, wdth the advantages of fashionable costume. Haggard, 
pale and w'orn, with a haunted, restless look in her dark e3'es. Were 
1 a painter, I'd spend a lifetime to get that look. AVe find it, but 
never upon canvas. The look which saj^s so eloquentl3% “ AVhat bit- 
ter w'rongs you have dealt to me, oh, cruel world !’’ Her movements 
are nervous, and uncertain as her conversation. She talks and 
thinks with her hearers — a chameleon, taking her colors from her 
locahties. AVhat she affirms one minute, if it is impolitic, she con- 
tradicts the next. To please is her aim. She finds it too trouble- 
some to differ and explain why she does so. I observe closely, tr3dng 
to find another side of Madame Cardave’s character. I hate to live 
with one who makes life eternally a pleasure part\% or rather, who 
endeavors to do it. 

* * * 

Madame Cardave came to the school room this morning with a 
look more troubled than usual. Her manner w'ould have been 
amusing, could I have been bhnd to her agitation, as she spoke to 
me of her desire for my services apart from the accustomed routine. 

“ Mademoiselle, would it be good for you to accompau}' me to- 
night on a mission I do not wish to expose to others ?” 

“Yes, madame, quite so; quite good, or, rather, agreeable.” 

“ That is the word I wanted,’' said she, without, as usual smiling 
at her bad English. “ You will be aw'ake all night.'’ She continued: 

“ You must not hear lessons to-morrow. The children will spend 
the day awa}', to allow you perfect rest, making amends for wffiat 3^011 
lose. In the evening we will drive out to the de Boulogne, or 
elsewdiere, if you prefer it.” 

“ I have no preference.” 

She kept on with her prett3^ promises, preparing me for her de- 
mands. 

“ I notice a paleness and languor about 3'ou of late. You must 


BERENICE, 


191 


have recreation. I meant to take you with me during the last week, 
but I was so annoyed, one way and another, I quite forgot to carry 
out my intentions.” 

“ Where we are going to-night is where you meant to take me ?” 

“No, no; to drive out for air. In future you shall go every even- 
ing. We are to be secret to-night, for if our plans be frustrated 
deep humiliation will follow. Our errand is not a pleasant one.” 

“ We will not fail. The greater the venture, the better I like it." 

“ You speak with the hope and confidence of youth, without know- 
ing the peril we are about to encount^r.^’ 

“ Any project attempted with a probability of success, ought to 
succeed. It will be our own fault if it fail. Do we lack either cour- 
age or invention ?” 

“ You would be one to extricate yourself from a difficulty, if you 
had been unfortunate in getting into one. It costs me a great strug- 
gle with my pride to bare my heart to you, and yet you are the only 
one that 1 feel like imposing upon. We prefer giving humiliating 
confessions or confidences to those out of our caste.” 

“ I thank you for the honor,’’ said I, haughtily. She did not seem 
to detect the tone. I wanted to tell her that aU men were born 
equal, and then to ask, “ Do the rich have a muscle, a vein, a drop of 
blood, more or less, to distinguish them from the poor ?” 

She interrupted my contemplation, saying: 

“ My husband and I do not live happily.’’ The words were hui- 
ried out, as if to speak slowly of thoughts that were hot, scorching, 
burning into her very soul, were impossible.” 

“ I am sorry,” said I, without really caring a bit about it. 

“ For this reason,’’ she continued, “ we are not happy. He is in- 
fatuated with another.” 

Very earnest now became my interest. 

“ How terrible that must be !’’ I exclaimed. 

She went on to explain. 

“ For a year or more he was indifferent to me. Every one saw it- 
After taking some pecuhar measures to gain information, I found 
out why.” 

“ What did you find to be the cause ?” 

“ His minion !” (She grew very excited.) “ I drove her by my 
emissaries from Paris, from my husband, whom I worship. I . sent 
her from him, and I hope they cast her into the Seine.” 

“ To drown her, madame V” 

“ What do I care ? She went unshriven, to meet her reward. If 
the}" did what I told them to do, Cardave will never meet her except 

in . Don’t stare at me ! I won’t say where. Let me relate my 

wrongs: After she was out of the way he became polite to me, and 
though he spent some considerable time at home, we did not quar- 


192 


BERENICE. 


rel. 1 bore his systematic, slow-murder, bravely, as long as I could. 
At length I grew desperate and tried to tortime him. I was fool 
enough to think that I could do so. In the effort I lost what I had 
before the estrangement, his esteem. He avoided me, and let me 
know that he intended to live far from one who would disgrace his 
name. Every one condemned me, 1 have been told, and censured me 
openly, even while they treated me with the consideration my i^osi- 
tion and my wealth demanded.^’ 

“ What manner of torture did you attempt ?” 

“ A lover, whom I hated. My whole soul was with one who cai*ed 
for no one less than me. It is rare for a woman to love her husband 
a-s I loved him.’' 

“ Dreadful ! I believe I should have accepted the lover, at last. 
How natural it must be to love those who love us.’^ 

‘‘Not so; I was hated for the same cause. You must have been 
brought uj) in a loose school of morals.” 

“ The most rigid was mine, madam. How can I tell what I would 
do ? I never loved any one. I thought ’twas very natural to hat® 
those who hate us, and vice verm” 

“My marriage vow; could I break that?” 

“ Certainl}^ not. I wonder that j'ou would try to make it appear 
that you did, and give him cause to suspect you.” 

“ fetter truths ! There is no retracting now. I am a defeated, 
maddened, and a desperate woman. I shall track him to his haunt 
this night, and you are to accompany me.” 

“ What will he think of me, as a meddler in what does not con- 
cern me ?” 

“ He will not see you. I have planned all that. You are a stranger 
in Paris ?’’ 

“ Yes.” 

“ Then you can not know of the old wretch whose house we are to 
visit to-night ; where, to be seen, would be ruin to any woman.” 

“ Who is he ?” My heart misgave me. Old wretch ! 

“An imposter; one who affects a divine gift — prescience — and 
really is a panderer to the w’orst people, the basest passions, and all 
this iniquity is for the meanest rew^ard — money !” 

I came very near fainting at her feet during this statement. Oh, 
Ruth, wasn’t it a thrilling situation for a girl like me V 

She stop2)ed to get her indignation out of its vulgar and demon- 
strative w'ays, and said, calmly as a lady would have spoken under 
any trial of patience : 

“ This man, some months ago, went to America and brought to 
Paris, a lovely girl, a niece of his . Bless me ! what is the mat- 

ter, Miss Rossmere ?’^ 

“Nothing; only a slight dizziness. It is jiassing off*.” 


BERENICE. 


193 

“ All, you need air. You must have it. A drive every day. What 
was I saying 

“ A neice of the astrologer’s came from America.” 

“ Now, I am obliged to relate to you the worst. Attached to this 
man’s house, are gambling hells, so that if a man does not fall to hi.s 
min by one propensitv, he will by another. You comprehend?” 

“Certainly I do " 

“This husband of mine conceived a mad passion, a carnal and 
depraved one for th^^'fair young creature.” 

“Did she permit his overtures f ’ 

“She would have bSen chaste, I hear from good authority, if 
she had dared to be.” 

“A poor excuse — she might have gone from him.” 

“She tried to do so, and did not succeed.” 

“She did succeed ; you are mistaken.” 

“How do you know that, Miss Rossmere 

“I do not know it. I hoped that ’twere so. I could not bear 
to think otherwise.” (I had nearly betrayed myself.) 

“She is there still, that is proof of it.” 

“When did you hear so ? It must be false.” 

“Not lately, but my informant knew the impossibility of her 
getting out of the house.” 

“You imagine she has fallen a victim to your husband’s love 
and his entreatie.sl?” 

“I do ; but I beg you not to speak of love. It is a desecra- 
tion of a pure sentiment.’’ 

“Will your going out to-night, to a place proscribed by society, 
make 3’ou less miserable. Madam Cardave f’ 

“No j I do not expect that it will. I am urged on. A woman 
of m3’ Tiatare must hav^e vengeance, get it how she ma3^ I re- 
solve to terminate this matter some way, if it be even by death.’’ 

“Of whom f” I shuddered at her determined and cruel face. 

“Any of the three. His, hers or mine.’' 

“How can I aid you, madam ? I pit^^ you, j-et l am not desir- 
ous of shedding blood, nor seeing yoa do so. I promise to serve 
you with such modifications.” 

“Come with me, for heaven’s sake ! A page’s dress that I have 
procured, a wig of light hair, together witii moustaches will ef- 
fectually change your appearance.” 

“And if it does ! Of what use will I be^ What can I do 

“Whatever transpires during our adventure will guide me. 
Until we are face to face, I know not what I am capable of do- 
ing or bearing.’’ 

“Do you blame her ?” 


194 


BEKENICE. 


bufc 1 would see her dead at rny feet, if I could, aud hiii* 

too/^ 

“Count P (That distiuction was to give the bait a keen relish 
to a plebian apj>etite.) 

1 saw clearly that 1 dare not remain with her after our errand,, 
for in time I should inevitably be betrayed. The hour of our de- 
parture (;ame. The disguise was perfect, 

“I look old in this costume F asked she. 

“You are not old; how could you look so?*’ 

“You should see me without my rouge aud enamelling. I’d 
have no need to tell you I was old.” 

“Not old to me, madam; but if you were, you are married^ 
what does age signify f ’ 

“It signifies much. Miss Eossmere. A man’s love is not like 
the jewel we put off or on, at our pleasure. We should struggle 
for youth, or its semblance, as for life.” 

I thought our chance for admission to the astrologer’s a 
meagre one. I had not calculated upon madam’s resources. By 
Blanche, or most likely, by my uncle’s wife, she must have been 
kept advised of Cardave’s movements, and also to have gained 
the privilege of entering the house. The grand old patriarch, 
with his flowing hair aud St. John’s head, would not have risked 
a famil^^ melee by bringing its representatives together, not un- 
less he were ^vell paid foy it. To my astonished view were 
women painted as Hebe in the frescoes of the ceiling. Women 
I)ainted white, like the marble Psyche. Flashing of jew'els, rip- 
pling of golden and raven hair, serpentine ornaments folding 
round white arms, circlets of jewels on white brows aud on 
white bosoms, gauzes floating around like clouds in the warn> 
sunset; jessamines, japouicas, violets, sweeter here where all 
was intoxicating. The rooms were changed indeed. They were 
no more as when I stole, with Blanche, a visit to them. Music, 
mingling with the soft cadence of silvery voices ! Lounging on 
the luxurious reposings of fanteuls and ottomans were the fair- 
est of women; some crouching in childish attitude and grace, 
talking with vivacity, others with delicious languor, resting up- 
on divans, silent and meditative. Madame had no thought of 
the divinities, she sought only her rival, the astrolager’s niece ; 
the husband, inditt'erent to her. We entered the rooms where 
many came with heavy purses, and left to go to the Seine. These 
rooms were oppressive — morally so. The spirit of greed pre- 
sided over them without disguisement. One saw it in the hag- 
gard faces, the anxious eyes, the white and stony horror of de- 
spair succeeding the breathless hope, as expectancy was wrought 
to its highest pitch, to be dashed to ruin's darkest ab.vss. 


BEKENICE. 


195 


‘*lIow shall I act 1 asked iu a whisper, lor oue could have 
heard a spider weaving his cell, I verily believe, except when 
sounds, which I did not comprehend, betrayed the changes or 
conclusion of the game, while the winner quietly swept off the 
stakes. I grew nervous concerning my disguise. Madame, more 
at ease, took a seat and called for wine. I drank, and after it 
felt more nerve for adventure. She gave me a purse, saying : 

“Take this ; bet wdth it; otherwise we shall be noticed.'' 
cannot play,’’ I answ ered. 

“They will teach you. Lose it. What does it matter f Mind 
the lesson we went over — the part you are to assume.’' 

“1 have forgotten hall of it." 

“You are the son of an English Baron, who died recently. 
You find yourself relieved of parental restraint, and an heir to 
immense property.” 

“I recall it now, so far. What else?" 

“Out on your first escapade you leave the entrancing revels of 
the beau monde of Paris, for more irresistable attractions to be 
found here.’’ 

“My role is the beginning of the Eake’s Progress. I am to 
bet ; 1 am to woo ; I am to be gay and dissolute. I fear I am not 
equal to my part. I shall certainly disaijpoint you.” 

At this moment she discovered Cardave. His face was turned 
from us, his head bent down. 

“He is looking at the beautiful hands of his companion rather 
than observing ihe game they are engaged in," said Oardave’s 
desperate wife. 

She could scarce command herself. She walked back and 
forth with the view of choosiug a seat, but her i)urpose was to 
observe Cardave and his companion. 

“Don’t stare at them,'’ J urged. “They will notice you.” 

“She is the old wretch’s niece.'’ 

“You are mistaken.'’ 

“How do you know ?” 

“I judge so by his actions. He is thinking of the winniugs, 
not of her." 

“I shall be obliged to kill her. Mark you ! How they tritle 
the time. Look into their eyes ; there is no game there.’' 

“Obliged to kill her, did you say ?” 

“Yes ! What of it f’ 

“Do not talk so wildly. Nothing in her manner, at this mo- 
ment w'ould justify a suspicion ; nothing but her being in such a 
place. Besides, shejis not the astrologer’s niece, madame !” 

“How’^ can you possibly know this ! Is she not exactly the 


190 


BERENICK 


description? The same complexion — olive, with dark eyes, hno 
form. It is she.” 

“There are many of them olive, with dark eyes. The stars in 
the sky are all alike. I tell you, in warning, yours is a dangerous 
presumption ; a venture that you may regret.” 

“See! They are going. Shall I let them go?” 

“We can follow and observe. In the meanwhile you may de- 
termine what plan to pursue.” 

“She disappeared, we knew not where. Cardave entered the 
parlors. In a few moments we found Blanche and him in close 
conversation. Madame betrayed no annoyance at sight of them. 
Her eyes wandered round the room seeking her rival. Occasion- 
ally she would respond to some remarks of mine, as when I said, 
“Blanche is like Zelira. The face must be a copy of hers,” and 
by the way, we may continue the poem a little farther. “The one 
she is so earnestly talking to is hideous — Mokanna.” 

“He is the richest old miser in Paris.” 

“ To complete the grouping, we want another one.” 

“Again? Ah! there are none of that stamp here. She is not th© 
pure -hearted Zehra. Such haunts for them !” 

“ Your husband returns to Blanche. Mokanna has gone elsewhere. 
She is a beautiful woman. Do you not fear her witchery ?” 

“Not at all. I know Blanche. She is my ally. She brought me 
hither.” 

“ Ernesteine,” said madame, rei:>rovingly, “ you are not acting the 
paid of a young man, by keeping with me. Go, pay some attention 
to the rest. Single out one among the youngest.” 

“My voice is effeminate; I fear it will betray me.” 

“ Make one of the squeaking tones that men of your age torture 
their listeners with.” 

She placed her fingers upon her lips, in evident agitation, of wea- 
riness. 

Cardave’s words to Blanche were clearly to be heard. 

“ My efforts,” said he, “ have been in vain. I had a clue. She was 
under the protection of one not known among us — a burly fellow — 
hving near the Louvre. He found my agent lurking near the house, 
and punished him. Hence, the coward lost sight of her. He has 
played the traitor’s part toward me.” 

“Provoking! Defeated, after all your pains. I’m refilly sorry for 
you. Monsieur.” 

Blanche had a very sincere look and tone, as she condoled with 
him. 

“ Blanche, that question or innuendo is not like you. You drift 
away from me. You were my best fiiend.’’ * 


BERENICE. 


197 


“ Wliat woman likes to hear another lauded in such terms as you 
use, in speaking of her ? Am not I fairer than she 

“ Jealous, my sweet one ? Had she not happened here, I should 
have made another choice.” 

Significantly this was spoken. Blanche replied: 

“ That compliment was dragged* out of you. You like dark-eyed 
beauties. With me you would have been a sad truant, though I own 
you are noted for constancy.” 

“I prefer ‘dusky’ ladies; yet I am not blind to lovehness of any 
tyj^e. Rest satisfied, Blanche, of my admiration. You are excepted 
in the general view of blondes. 1 told you so a thousand times.” 

“Don’t make excuses to me. We all know your taste. We have 
evidence in your wife, a beautiful woman in her day, so uncle tells 
me?” 

“ She was fair enough. She had hair that she could set her dainty 
foot ujmn, and eyes which flashed in anger so grandly that you 
would make her angry to witness the exhibition of the feeling. 
Since I think of it, about fifteen years she was a splendid woman.’’ 

Madanie’s hand trembled. I caught it in mine, as Blanche ques- 
tioned : 

“ Fair and good, and loved you ?” Madame forthwith took a seat. 

“ Good, of course she was, and loved me. There’s the inconveni- 
ence of wives; she loved me too weU.” 

A deep sigh, more lilve a stifled moan, came from her who loved 
too well. 

“ You men are odd creatures. What do you hke in us ? Should 
we be indifterent to keep you earnest ?” 

“ WeU, Blanche, it depends solely on who loves us. I’d rather be 
in the gi’asp of a gendarme, than in the power of such a woman as 
my wife.” 

“ None you meet here love too -weU.’’ 

“ No; but wisely, which is the better way.” 

“ What of rumors rife of the Savan? Was madame seriously taken 
with him ?” 

“A lie about my modern Lucretia, who was acting a part for 
which I shaU never forgive her. She shaU not aUow a shadow of 
doubt to rest upon her name, or, properly, my name, without feel- 
ing my vengeance. Man has his prerogative. Cossar’s wife should 
be above suspicion, be Ciesar what he may.” 

Madam e’s tears were faUing fast. Sobs would foUow. I strove to 
rouse her. 

“ Let us go home now before you are crazed, I implore. You are 
satisfied she is not here.’’ 

“No; I wiU not be defeated. I am not satisfied. It is eaily. She 


198 


BERENICE. 


may appear. I believe I will tear off my mask, or rather wash off 
the paint, which makes me hideous.’’ 

“ Compose youi’self, for Heaven’s sake,” said I. “ He is looking 
at me. I am alarmed.” 

His remarks to Blanche were intended for our ears, I feel con- 
vinced. 

“ A strange face is under that wig.” 

‘‘ His companion is decidedly an oddity,” answered Blanche, care- 
lessly. 

“ An old harridan. What brought her here ?” 

“ Some lying mirror told her she was not passee.’" 

“ But the boy ? The Guercino head and face attracts me tenibly. 
I must study him. Present me, I pray you, to the young ApoUo.” 

“ Is not my society preferable to a boy’s, and my face worthy of 
your contemplation ? You hold my beauty hghtly. I’ve been ac- 
customed to homage. I vow to-mori’ow, nay, to-night, I’ll get a 
pot of ink and bedaub my hair and lashes, and ba^e my eyes in 
lotion to darken and be-devil tlieni. I may after it, perchance, keep 
you near me.” 

“You pretty witch ! Don’t take the trouble. I have a mind to 
swear allegiance to you now and forever.” 

At this serious phase of affairs, a young lady came unceremo- 
niously, and put her arm through mine, leaving it out of the ques- 
tion for me to speak a word until she ceased speaking : 

“What does such a handsome scamp as you, keep with an old 
grandmother fcfi*? Come with us; there’s a joUy set here. Do you 
play ?” 

“ No, but I can try. I have wanted to learn.” 

“I’ll show you; come to the salon. I’ve luck, man! I’U be your 
partner. You'll go home with a full pocket. We have a bower of 
roses, too, where, when you lie down, you waken in heaven, with 
houries; no angels, earth angels.” 

“ Is it possible ?” 

“We have foiiunes told, tme as oracles, over there in the astrol- 
oger’s room.. We may know our lucky days, risky days, and black 
days. Shall I show you the way ?” 

“Thank you, miss, I’ve had my foilune told.” 

“ Not by him ?” 

“ Perhaps not, but satisfactoril}*, neveilheless.” 

“ You are the tamest little man I ever knew.’’ 

“You might change your opinion of me, yet.” 

“ There’s metal in that. I thought you were in body and soul, as 
in words and looks, punk — nothing but punk !” 

“ Punk ! that’s rotten. Y^ou offend me b}^ your remarks. I’m a 
gentleman, miss, an aristocrat, a noble. IMy father was a baron.” 


beeeniBe. 


199 


“ Are you offended V Well, any mood is better than your stupor. 
Will you dance? will j^ou have your fortune told ? or will you play? 
I am on duty as hostess, this evening. What will you do ?” 

“Nothing, until I speak to the lady whom I escorted here.’' 

“ To consult her, I suppose. Well, hang you, go to your grand- 
mother. 1 have no patience with 3 'ou, you girl-faced thing.” 

I was glad enough to escape from her. In great perturbation, I 
spoke to my companion: 

“ Madame, 1 Iiave passed through an ordeal.” 

“ How ; has he” — 

“ He ! no, she ! The sprite talking to him, at this very instant, of 
me. She has been ver}-- importunate to get me to make myself 
agi'eeable. Had I been a jjage, or an English noble, I certainly 
could hot have proved myself invulnerable to her persuasions.’^ 

We both heard Cardave, as he exclaimed: 

“ By my soul, that is a girl in disguise ! Look at the contour, and 
the gait, and mark the timidity of manner.’’ 

Blanche assured him of the young fellow’s having been grossly 
insulted by one by, far too natural in her treatment of those not 
versed in the ways of society. She had called him a girl. It was 
needless to add farther insult. 

Cardave w’as silenced, but not convinced. He kept his eyes fixed 
upon me. I did not desire, now, to go home. The hour had gone 
by. Monseuer Cardave approached me as I sat by his wife. He 
had recognized me. He whispered my name. I did not deny that 
I was Eunice. I only said, in a wild way to him : 

“Ah, wdiy did she stay so long ! I am lost!” 

He did not notice my ejaculation. Enchanting, bewildering 
strains of melody rose upon the air. Where were raadame’s in- 
terests, as we whirled aw^ay in the intoxicating waltz ? My head 
drooped upon his shoulder, his arm encircling my waist. I was 
dazed, drunken with delight. My veins thrilled ; I was an instru- 
ment of human-harmony, a master-hand swept the chords. I 
had no pity for my victim, no remorse for my sin in torturing 
her. Again, a quicker measure. We were in the volte. The 
wild and bounding, maniacal, spirit-stirring dance. We whirled 
from the crowded room to another. The music became distant 
and dream-like. I awakened in the full and horrible realization 
of being alone with my evil genius. I tore off the mask that 
only half concealed my face. Humbled, con science- stricken 1 
appeared before him. Not fearing him as I did once 5 boldly 
I met his glance as I motioned him to keep aloof. The subtle 
power that drew women to listen to him, against their own con- 
victions, existed no more with me. He threw into his air and 


■200 


I^RENICE. 

manner the look I had once yielded to, and commenced the old 81017. 

“You fled from me, cruel girl ! Why did you do so ? I have 
been wretched ever since; shunning, bating all womankind.^’ 

‘ I fled from you to save my soul ; to keep 103^ promise made to 
my Maker in inj- prayers. Monsieur Cardave J detest you. Y^ou 
are a bad and dangerons man.” 

“You came here to-night, I judge, thinking this was Heaven. 
You would be an angel, girl, were you not too much of mortal to 
wear the wings.'^ 

“I came with one whom 3^ou know, to serve her purpose. She 
wished to meet 3 011; I did not. A lady who loves you brought 
me here.” 

“What care 1 for any love but yours ?” 

“Nevertheless, monsieur, the ghost of lost loves haunts us to 
our death ; seeking either retribution or resuscitation.” 

“You trifle with me. This is another of your inventions ; a 
new ruse to get out of my power.” 

“Is it ! It was certainly no plot of mine, getting to 3mur home 
and your family. To escape danger I rushed to iny destroyer’s 
I)rotection. Yet I assure you, without being aware of it, sir 
Count, 1 have slept every night for the last month with your in- 
nocent child, Ilortense.” 

“With my child! How is this?” 

“I went to teach 3-our children, not knowing them to be yours. 
Assuming a name to escape you and that bad old man, my’ uncle.” 

“And you came back to me to-night J You cannot exist with- 
out me. Ho not deny it.” 

“I came, as I told you, to this sewer of sin with another, and 
on no errand of mine.” 

“I can’t conceive who brought y ou here. Tell me of something 
that concerns me — that does not. The man whose rooms y’ou 
occupied after you left this house? I would like to have his 
name ? I believe I would kill him.” 

“I will not give it. I am not ashamed of it, however. He 
was an honorable man.” 

“What is honor ? A man that is too cold to appreciate yon 
and grow mad about you, as I, is honorable. He could not be 
moved by any woman on earth if not by you, an anchoritO, a 
Simon Srydites. By heaven you would not find [me so kind. 
Doors nor bolts will keep me from you.” 

“Nor marriage vows 

“No!” 

‘Love, free as air, at sight of human ties. 

Spreads his light wings and in a moment flies.” 

“ You are thoroughly depraved.” 


BERENICE. 


201 


“You like depravity. A while ago your lips clung to it. Your 
eyes swam in liquid light at the gaze of it. You drank in the sighs, 
nay, the very breath of a depraved man, of Cardave, your adorer, 
your slave.” 

“ Yes, in sorrow I own it; but that was m3" moidal part, the ethe- 
rial to -which 3"ou do not belong, predominates now, and rescues me 
from 3"our influence.” 

“ Who belongs to 3^0111’ angelicized state ? The cold man — the 
honorable iceberg which would float in tropic seas, neath fieiy suns., 
and never melt ?’' 

“So much the safer for the woman who trusts him. He is a gen- 
tleman. I detest, na3", ablior, brutal natures.” 

This irritated him be3'ond measure. He made an efibii: to draw 
me towards him, with an oath, when a figure sprang up from a sofa 
in a dark corner of the room, and rushed toward him. How he 
managed it, I know not; but the Count la3' at his feet horf> da combat, 
and the gentleman, 1113" rescuer, turned to mo, with nonchalance, 
sa3"ing, while the other talked of ‘satisfaction:' 

“Miss Rossmere, I rejoice to have a chance of serving 3'ou; will 
you depart hence with me *?” 

“God has sent 3"ou; I bless 3'Ou,” said 1 , throwing my arms pas- 
sionatel3" around him, exclaiming, “ Oh, 1113' brother, 3 011 alwa3"s 
come to rescue me from him !” 

He drew me to his heart for the shortest second, placed his hand 
caressingl3' upon my head, with a pity in the gesture, and hunied 
me awa3". 

I asked him to search through the rooms for Madame Cardave, 
but he refused, promising to return for her, after he had seen me 
out of the haunts of sin. In agony, or remorse, I asked of him : 

“What shall I do? Yladam Cardave will hate me.” 

He replied: 

“ Sa3" nothing to her of what has happened.” 

“ But I danced with her husband; she saw that.” 

“ She should not blame 3'ou so much as 3'ourself. Y’^ou were in 
her service upon this errand, were 3'Ou not ?” 

“I was; and indeed I entreated of her not to visit the house. I 
feared ill -would come of it. She is a wretched woman. I pity her 
from m3" heart.” 

“ You placed yourself, most unwisel3", in the power of a wicked 
man. This is not the first time in 3'our life that 3"Ou have been so 
tried.” 

“ I admit it. In neither case was the sin of my own seeking. I 
solemnh" assure you, I have been brave. If 3"ou oiiH knew how 
brave, 3'ou would at least respect me.” 

“I do. I thought I knew inadame’s nature, when I placed 3"ou in 
13 


202 


BERENICE. 


her power. I am disappointed in her. Tliis night s work does not 
make me think less of you. I onty wish I could save you from fur- 
ther temptation, by being ever near you.^’ 

“ Oh, my brother ! I wish you were always mth me. How did 
you happen to know our movements so well f’ 

‘‘ The French lady who assists in teaching the children, infonned 
me of the whole affair. I knew your danger, and came to save you. 

“ Bless you for it ! IsnT it terrible that you are not, nor can never 
be anything to me, not even my brother?” 

“ Sometimes I think it best as it is.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 


LETTER FROM EUNICE TO RUTH. 

Dear Huth: — The night of mad excitement had passed, leaving as 
its record, bitter humiliation, thankfulness for my rescue, and a cer- 
tainty of being out again in the world. The kiss of sin seemed 
burning in my soul. The only holy and pime memory of the night 
was the hand upon my head. If it had been the SavioPs I could 
not have felt more regenerated and evangelized. 

Upon the day succeeding that night of sin, ere I had arisen, Mad- 
ame Cardave entered the room. She stood before me an outraged 
and injured wife. Imagine her, a woman who had lived a fashion- 
able life, passed season after season of sleepless nights and aimless 
days, robbed of the illusions of coloring and other artifices. The 
lines of her face darkened, deepened by hate, and 3'ou have a peep 
at my morning visitor. I turned my face to the wall to avoid her. 
It did not avail. She was resolute in her purpose of accusation. 
Her voice was low, but harsh and grating. She had evidently just 
arisen, for her black hair with its silver tlireadings, floated about 
lier as she stood gazing upon me with her angry eyes. 

“ Ah, my Maker ! have commiseration on me and spare me this,’^ 
I asked, as silently I prayed. I grew desperate. “ Let me die now, 
before her, I humbly implore Thee ! without listening to her up- 
braidings, or mtnessing the scatliing glance that withers my soul.^’ 

My prayers were of no avail. 

“ Who are you, false woman T demanded she, fiercely, as she 
paced the room back and forth, with her demoniacal look upon me, 
while I lay trembling without a reply. My moans and tears did 
not appease her. She asked questions, one after another, without 
waiting for reply. 

“ How have you gained access to my house and the secrets of my 
soul ? I was miserable enough before you came. You are the si- 
rocco crossing, sweeping the desert, where I fainted yet hoped. 
Life is gone now. I hope no more. You, the astrologer’s niece, to 
dare to enter my house. Your lover ? Vq^er ! he is my husband. 
I loved him ! A cringing fool I have been, licking the very dust for 
him. No wonder he put his heel down ujiGn the abject, spiritless 


BERENICE. 


‘i04 

thing ! You are young and fair. jVIen worship and bow, and kneel 
and die, for such as you. A world is before you. A generation of 
men to choose from — aU castes, all ages and conditions. Yet you 
must take my husband from me, you vile mtriguante !” 

“ Take him, madame. Please consider that I have not tjfken him. 
Never with my consent will I look upon the wretch again. I hate 
him ! Allow me to rise from this bed, if you j)lease. I desire to 
leave your house immediately. We both know the necessity of the 
step.’’ 

“ I do not know why you should go hence now. You deceive me 
by affecting what you do not feel. You are safer here than else- 
where. You do not hate him : no one could. He is not one to give 
up the quest. Ah, you know he will not come here. You say you 
fled from hun and changed your name. What did it avail ? You 
met; you will meet again.” 

“ Like the laws of gravitation, you believe my course to be down- 
ward to his level. You wish to make me think my degradation in- 
evitable. In my future movements, madame, you wiU please, as my 
conducts interests you, notice that my will is now strong and my 
heari one not tending to evil.” 

“ Last night in the dance, what did I see ? You in liis arms, al- 
most on his breast. Possibly you were in toriure at the time. Miss 
Rossmere 

“ The courante, a provincial dance, is rather exuberant and dem- 
onstrative, I own. Still I did not invent it, nor did I expect to see 
or dance it, nor did I try to do so ?” 

“I imagine, in a dance that succeeded this one, that I saw more; 
and, girl, as I think of it, I could take that pretty face of yours and 
deface it — brand those lips that touched my husband’s with a red- 
hot iron until I burned the pulpy freshness to a cinder.” 

The cold perspiration stood upon my forehead, and my Ups were 
white enough to please her jealous humor. My presence of mind 
returned as I found her to be a formidable enemy. I must endeavor 
to protect myself from her vengeance. 

“ You may have been mistaken, Madame Cardave; the volte is an 
exceedingly erratic dance, but certainly it did not lead to such rep- 
rehensible conduct on my part as a kiss. Oh, no, madame !” 

“ Was I mistaken ? I saw so many violations of the pure code of 
manners that the whole scene is to me a phantasmagoria of actions 
and gestures too vile to reflect upon. Do say that I am mistaken in 
you.” 

“ I can assure you that you are altogether in error concerning my 
proclivities, my former life and my present designs. I find that 1 
am susceptible. I am impulsive, too. A sad discovery made lately. 
Madame Caixlave, I have had no mother to gviide me, to love me. 


BEBENIOE. 


205 


Think of it, and be sorry for me. Madame Cardave, I hate your 
husband. Think of it, and be consoled. The momentary induence 
lie holds over me I tlu’ow oft* — I throw oft*, easily. Last night, when 
in the voltes w’e disappeared, without my sanction, from the room 
where you were, I was not in his power. It existed only in the at- 
mosphere of the dancing aj^artments were all was impure. I am no 
intriguante, Madame Cardave ! Your libels upon my good name 
have cut deep, and if you were not a suffering fellow-being I would 
tell you some truths of 3’oui’self in this sad aft*aii\” 

“ Sav them, Ernestine. I would know im^sef as Madame Car- 
<lave — mother, wife and hiend; a Mend of yours, even now. What 
has she done wrong ?” 

“ Wrong ? It was discreet in j^ou, a wife and a mother, to take a 
young and impulsive creature to the vilest haunts. ’Twas contribu- 
tive to her serenit}^ elevating to her mind, chastening to her pas- 
>>ions. The dress, the delusive music, the lascivious dance, were 
«ach and all, lessons of morality ! You thought not of me. Had 
aiw one but 3"our husband followed me, with passion-breathing 
words, 3'ou would have laughed at his mistake, have palliated the 
faux pan. The dance and the kiss would have been pleasantries. 
Speak truly. Had 3’ou a care for me ? Answer me, Madame Car- 
*dave. And another question, also. What if some jealous wife were 
to take Hortense, in future j ears to the astrologer's ?” 

Growing more and more composed, she said : “ M}^ first and only 
thought was of m3" husband. The possibLlit3" of 3"our being con- 
taminated never crossed m3" mind. I made no allowance for 3"our 
impressionable temperament. I thought eveiy good and trun 
woman w'ore an armor, impenetrable to all save the shafts of Love. 

“ All are not born alike. Steadier natures, reflective and cautious, 
not like mine, to be drawn as Fehx draws the fowls in the basin, 
after the magnet — such as these could go safel3' where I could not. 
The magnet, as it is, draws; I follow for a little while; but when I 
seem to be utteily lost then I am slipping out safe from the snare, 
laughing to see m3" enemies completel3" foiled.’' 

“ What is 3’our talisman 

“ Memoiw, reminiscences, example, or practice and precept, fives 
of hol3" women, saints who taught me that after death comes the 
judgment." 

“ Madame Cardave,” said I, fixing m3" eyes sternly upon her, “ I 
stand as 3"our accuser. I hope and pray for the grace of a pardon- 
ing spirit, for last night's proceeding. The shadow thrown upon my 
future, by m3" visit to that horrible haunt, is indeed a painful one. 
To m3* dearest friend, who saw me there, what am I ? My word. 


206 


BERENICE. 


with conduct entirely equivocal, will be a poor guarantee of my pu- 
rity. With so much against me, it wiil have no weight.'" 

“ You value his good opinion of you V” 

“ Above all things in the world.’’ 

“A better person you think liim than i^lonsieur Cardave 

‘‘ Cardave is Lucifer — the other, a god.” 

“ How daring a comparison !” 

“ Strong ones ai-e requisite to give the shades of (-hai'acter be- 
tween the Alpha and Omega of mankind.” 

Yet Lucifer has a power over you, w’hich the other has not.’’ 

“ With one, every feeling is pure as earthly ones can be. He 
placed his hand upon my head; I thought of tlie Savior when Mag- 
dalin knelt to be forgiven. I hid my he^ld upon his breast, when 
the hawk was swooping around me. When he places liis hand 
within mine, I feel like setting out on a long and w^earisome journey 
for the joy of being beside him. In the desert, with him, I would 
not fear. With him, darkest night would be day. Madame Cardave, 
so high above all men, I have made this one.” 

“ Youi' feelings for the other; please explain them, I like to hear 
you.” 

“ Monsieur Cardave might lead me for a moment, but I would be 
looking back, not for the city of Sodom, but for my good angel, to 
save me from the ab}' ss to w^hich he di’agged me. 1 could wu’est my 
soul fi’om him wiien he w’as surest of possession, and stand white- 
robed and i^ure, so far above him that he dare not even gaze upon 
me !’’ 

“ You are a good girl, but not fit for contact with tlie wx^iid, I 
will be just. I know you will be in his pow-er again.’’ 

“ Have no fear! From the time his hand rested protectingly upon 
my head, I hated Cardave. If he came here now” vengeance, if 1 
were able, I w'ould have, for his thoughts of me; and for you, mad- 
ame, I could” — 

“ Do not speak in so contenq^tuous a w^ay of my husband. I can 
not Hsten to any one talking against him. However, I am happier 
than I was an hour ago.” 

In knowing that one temptation is removed from his w'ay ? I 
shall leave Paiis. Will that satisfy you ?” 

“Where are you going? Do not go, Ernestine. Stay with me. 
Cardave will not meet you. He knows not that you are here.’’ 

“ He does. I told him that I w^as, while appealing to his paternal 
instmcts. When his snake-like eyes held me no longer in their spell, 
I spoke to him of you and of your love for him.'’ 

“ Did you ? What did he say \ How^ did it affect him ?” 

•' He betrayed no emotion, but instead, a cool indifterenc.e. His 


BERENICE. 


207 


true feelings, however, may have been under a mask. He will never 
forget you.’^ 

“ But I shah be gone. He will not see me.” 

“ It is the same ; ’twould be the same if you were dead. Other 
faces would charm him. All but mine. I had, so they say, a fair 
face, too, but it did not wear well.” The tears and plaintive tone 
were an effective rebuke. 

“Forgive,” said I, “the ill I have done. Say that you will, ma- 
dam. Let me be assured of your pardon.” 

“ I forgive you freely, but the sorrow is recent. It will soon 
amalgamate with the rest — the old sorrows. When I found that 
you were the astrologer’s niece the shock w^as great; my mind could 
scarce sustain itself. You had deceived me, too.’^ 

“ Last night’s suffeiing was of your own seeking. Did I not en- 
deavor to change your purpose V 

“You did; but why, knowing Cardave, remembering 3'our weak- 
ness, your narrow escape previously, why meet him again ?” 

“Adventure! Tlie Bohemian taint, if not mine by birth, engen- 
dered by the castaway life that I, as many friendless ones, have 
lived. No one cai’es what we do. , No one loves us.” 

“ I read your motives. Lack of mercy towards wives, who are no 
longer young and fair. Vanity, curiosity, all combined, led you to 
the blink of ruin. Your sin is great.” 

“ I will pray. I will make a Novena for you. I will go to the 
shrine in pilgrim’s dress, praying Grod to make j^ou happy in your 
husband’s love.” 

“ You need not pray. I learned last night tliat I am already a 
repudiated w ife.” 

“ On what grounds does he dare do that?’^ 

“Inlidelity. The hope that I had to make him suffer one pang; 
one heart-pain that I had suffered brought this end — a flirtation 
^vith one wfro w^as in earnest, wken I was far fr-om being so.” 

“ Then he supposes you to be criminal — a false wife ?” 

“ You heard what he said to Blanche last night? I could turn his 
evidence against him, if I did not recoil from being in any w^ay, in 
pubHc, associated with her. I have bought her information, dearly, 
concerning my husband’s movements.” 

“ What a bad man ! You reprimanded me for a harsh sentence 
upon him just now, and pray why V 

“ I love him, unchangingly, with all his neglect, his cruelty, and 
his desire to disgrace me.” 

“ I wish you had met a good man, and loved him as w’ell as you 
do this one.” 

“ More than likely, if he were good I should not care for him. 
Instances of the ,kind are not unknown. Security is the bane of 


*208 BERENICPl 

love. We woirien a,re never so faithful to good men as we are to bad 
ones.’' 

“Forgive me, Madame Cardave, for the trouble I gave. Any 
amends I can make will be a joyful task. I hate to j^art with you. 
My time has been passed here pleasantly as any laborer’s time 
could be.” 

“ You have been faithful to my childi'en. Felix, whom no one 
likes, you manage Avell. He adores you. Monsieur Cardave is the 
only bitterness between us. I exposed you to temptation, forgetting 
that you were neither marble nor a jealous wife, having green eyes, 
which Avould only see him and his temptress, not thinking hoAV far 
she had wilfully erred. I interrupted your morning sleep. Get up ; 
Ave will take the drive and part friends, but not for some days, until 
I lind a home for ^^ou Avitli a friend whom I can trust, who has no 
great grief and continual torture to warp her judgment, pervert her 
nature, and make her like poor Madame Cardave, whose recollec- 
tion of you AA’ill ahvays be a jdeasure — the consciousness of your 
perfection.’^ 

“ Here her nationality was indisputable — you avlU say “ j^olite 
even to the sacrifice of sincerity.” This was no strained tribute of 
her’s to my character; it was sincere. I saAv it by her tears. I got 
up and knelt at her feet, and kissed her hand. She raised me, folded 
me to her grieved heari, and sobbed bitterly. After she grew calmer, 
she asked me if I would object to leave Paris. 

“I would rejoice,’’ answered I; “I regret coming to it.’’ 

“ Would you part with that dear friend?” 

“ He is to leave Paris in a feAv days.” 

“ I imagined there might be an attachment between you — an affair 

de ccery 

“ None in the world. True, he has often protected me, and made 
me almost feel that I had a right to his protection. I shall hate to 
lose sight of him, but that is one of the lessons of life, at least of 
mine. 1 am neA'er to rest; nevermore.” 

“ A hard lesson, from a hard master, is this for you, poor child. 
No home, no mother. Ah, me ! No Avonder you go astray. I had 
all, yet what am I ?” 


CHAPTER XV. 


EXTRACTS FROM RUTH’s JOURNAL. 

OF A C.\T WHICH STRUTTED HER BRIEF HOUR, MUCH TO MUSS WARD’s AD- 

VANT.\.GE. 

Nothing occurred for sometime alter my sojourn in the city to 
disturb my tranquility. I sang frequently in amateur perform- 
ances and at concerts. Miss Pinkington, my friend and chape- 
ron evinced a deep interest in my career. She dwelt in exulta- 
tion (far exceeding my feelings of only half- belief) upon printed 
paragraphs, laudatory of the ‘‘young artiste.'^ One morning, 
lost in a sweet reverie, I had gained the Inner Temple. My 
tribute was cast uiion its altar, when the name which I hated, 
called me back to the present and real. 

Berenice arose as I entered the room, bowing coldly. She 
spoke clearly : 

“My visit this morning is upon business matters.” 

“A remark u})on your card informed mo of that fact ; other- 
wise, as 1 am pressed tor time I could not have received you.” 
Her brow darkened as I said this. 

“I came to make propositions. If you accept them, your mind 
will be relieved upon a subject that must have harrassed it of 
late.” 

“What subject? You mistake; I never was more tranquil 
than now.'’ 

“Y^ou are perfectly at ease concerning an important suit, 
pressed by your guardian, when upon the issue you are either a 
beggar or an heiress.” 

“I would, if left to my choice, be a beggar, prefeiing it, by far, 
to the heirdom of the Aubrey estate.” 

‘‘Then it will be easy to negotiate with one so indifferent. I 
would like to make terms with you for property you hold so 
lightly.” 

“Being a minor, Hr. Wyatt is invested with all power ; apply 
to him, if you please, tor compromises.” 

“I shall. I wish to ask your opinion of certain circumstances 


210 


BERENICE. 


connected with Mrs. Gault and my father, and also with myself.'’ 

‘^Can j'oii not arrange matters with J)r. Wyatt without bring- 
ing up the dead and their dreary histories? 1 have had for some 
time, entire rest. I confess it makes me languid, and utterlj^ un- 
fits me for strife. 

^‘There will not be strife if you desire i^eace and kind words.’^ 

‘‘Kind words ! If you say them they will be worth hearing,, 
as something *new under the sun.’” 

“I shall not get out of humor with you. ^ly desire was to 
propose a withdrawal of the suit, and to divide the estate — equal- 
ly, of course. In the arrangement, either to retain the home- 
stead, Mount Marah.” 

After finding 1 was not inclined to reply, she continued : 

‘^We both have an interest in the speedy termination of what 
seems now interminable. No rents can be collected, as matters 
rest. It may be many j^ears before the matter is settled. In case 
of our defeat you know we would appeal.” 

My silence was, of course, more annoying than arguments or 
comments. She continued: 

“I have possession ! Mount iVlarah will not be frightened out 
of Dr. Moore and n>yself ! AVe have resolved to hold it to the 
last !’' 

She was becoming excited. I answered quietly : 

“No one will attempt to frighten you from its precincts, at 
least not 1. 1 would not live there if every blade of grass on 

Mount Maralfs grounds were studded with a diamond.’’ 

“You have not the memories connected with it that 1 have : a 
happy girlhood ; a dear father and a kind mother, or stei)-mother 
who never made me feel that I was not born of her.” 

At this hypocritical outbreak 1 entirely lost forbearaiuie, and 
replied : 

‘d have other memories — bitter ones. Of my own wrongs, I 
have little to say ; but of hers J have much : more than time or 
place permits. My memory is chiefly of a fair, witless creature, 
who was hurried out of this world to a better at a very short 
shrive. Worse than this, is the memory of the poor demented 
mother who died of a broken heart. Do, for Truth’s sweet sake, 
have ‘-Crave Cimir'’ cut in glaring letters on her tomb with the 
other French memorials as descriptions.'' 

“She was melancholy, morbid, hypochrondriac on some sub- 
jects. She could not throw' off trouble as some do. You know' 
my father was not at all happy w ith her on account of her unfor- 
tunate temperament.” 

“I did not know it! Nor do 1 think it likely he ever betrayed 


BEIIENICE. 


211 


Kiicli secrets, bouiul as lie and liis child must liave been by ties 
of gratitude to the lady of Mount Marah/’ 

^‘She was a true mother to me. In my education neither ac- 
complishments nor solid information were neglected. This decla- 
ration, which 1 make, is truth.’’ 

‘T always looked upon you as a lady of great erudition.” 

“Sarcasm ! and from you, insufferable !” 

“It is not imperative upon you to endure it. Our audience is 
surely at an end.’’ 

“ It is not. I must bnng to your mind every action in my step- 
mother’s life, which tends to prove that I was to inhent her fortune. 
I came liere with her from Europe, in my tenth year, and from that 
hour every luxury was lavished upon me.” 

“Because she honored Iludolph Gault; aye, and feared him, so 
people say, and you were his child.” 

“ Not only that. I was to represent the family, to inherit its 
wealth.” 

“ You may inherit it, but you can not represent the family — the 
Aubreys— no more than I can, who have not a drop of their blood 
in my veins.” 

“ You dare to talk thus to me. Pray who are you ?” 

“ I blush to own my utter ignorance. It has been the riddle of 
my hfe. It is unsolved. Who am I ? I ask you to teU me. It is 
the only favor I Avill ever be liJiely to require of you.’’ 

“ I’d rather torture you by my silence. You have n(^ intention of 
compromising, or of getting Dr. "Wyatt to do so. TVhy should I 
favor you V” 

“ If Dr. W^'att were to deliver to you all the titles, deeds and claims 
to the estate, 1 would most fervent!}' thank him. If Dr. "Wyatt will 
not think and feel as I, what can Ido? I have no power. He is my 
guardian.” 

“ People say, fair lady, that >'Oii are something more to him than 
his warch’’ 

“ People say what ? What do tlu'y dare say ? What do }'ou dare 
say ?” 

“ Only that you are Dr. Wyatt’s mistress. That is all.” 

Oh, the malice of that look, as she uttered the horrid w<3rds ! 
Wild with rage, I retorted : 

“ Fiend ! Liar !” 

My friend entered, and approached me in her calm, collected man- 
ner, saying, with the low impressive tone peculiar to her in her se- 
rious moods: 

“ Miss Ward, you are forgetting yourself." 

“You don’t know what that woman said tome. No one could 
Imar it,” r<dorted I. 


212 


BP]UENICE. 


“ Never mind. Don't repeat it. I can imagine wliat thoughts 
the mind of such a woman could conceive. Will you be kind enough, 
madame, to leave the room ?” said she, turning to Mrs. Moore, add- 
ing: “never again disturb the lady under my protection, the ward 
of Dr. AVyatt, by coming here.” 

“ Miss" Piukingtou,*’ said she, mockingly, to the little lady, 
1 act upon your suggestion. Miss Ward, 1 desire to be re- 
membered to 3 ’our ancient lover. Hoping .you will have better 
success with him than with a former one, 1 bid adieu.” 

‘‘ Demon !” exclaimed Miss Pinkington, as the door closed upon 
Berenice. 

Not taking her words as eminating from her own soul, 1 sup- 
l)Osed the world to be busj" with my present life ; associating it 
disgracefully with a good man, one who in j^ears might have 
been my father, and who thought of me as a daughter. What 
a fall for me ! A mistress ! 

An unjust and cruel world this is !” exclaimed I. 

“ You do not accept what that wretched creature says, as the 
verdict of good people, of ladies 

I am inclined to give it credence. The rumor may exist. Of 
course, .you and I would be the last to know of it. What if the 
good old geutleman should hear it ? I never could look in his 
face again. How shall I act ? Weigh the matter well 1 ? Are 
there not grounds for comment ? I am here without any visible 
means of support. Dr. Wyatt visits the house, and, if he is old, 
he is not repulsive. I am seriousl.y apprehensive. The^' may 
weave a web to ruin me, while he will be despised, and perhaps 
treated with contempt. I am little known ; only a few were 
brave enough to take me by the hand and sajy “poor waif, what- 
ever wind has blown thee thither, let it be a propitious one.” 

A very few will interest themselves about me. Had it not 
been for Grace, no one would. If suspicion taints her mind, I 
shall have no friend. How will Dr. Wyatt bear the opprobrium 

“ My advice is, take no notice of the imputation. Do not let 
her exult over .vour annoyance.” 

“It ma^^ be the better wa^*. I’ll think it over. Promise me, 
if you love me, or iiitv me, not to mention this occurrence to 
Dr. Wyatt.” 

“I have not the assurance to tell him. Besides, I would not 
make him miserable, for 3 'our sake.” 

“ To-night, when he comes, will you, by some device, make it 
impossible for him to see me? I reall^^ cannot look at him until 
the shock of her words wears off.” 

“ I must say either that you are out or indisposed ?” 

“ I will go out. T will spend the evening with Grace.” 


BERENICE. 213 

*^Mrs. Moore being in the city; you may meet her there. They 
tolerate each other.” 

And worse still, she may have told the vile lie to Grace.” 

Would she give credence to it ? Grace is too pure-hearted 
herself, for that.” 

But the thought of her hearing it, crushes me completely. I 
ought never to see Dr. Wyatt again.” 

“Would it not be ingratitude, to visit upon him the couse- 
quences of this story ?” 

“ Assuredly ; but by allowing his visits, I give it confirmation. 
However, I decide at once. I will remain at home. To-night I 
will see him, it may be, for the last lime.” 

“ To be candid with you, you allow^ed your aversion to Mrs. 
Iloore, to lead you into an abruptness of manner. You were 
perfectly unbending. Knowing the woman, you should have 
been conciliatory, no matter what the struggle may have cost 
you.” 

“ I have tried to forget injuries ; tried hard. I can not, when 
I see her, or even hear her voice, a cold chill conies to my heart, 
as if ’twere never to be warm again, never to go on with its 
work.” 

“ You hate her ; that is, the whole explanation ?” 

“ It is not hate. It is not so grand a feeling as hate. Call it 
scorn, contempt, loathing.” 

“Your prohibiting Dr. Wyatt’s visits, will be her triumph 
over you. Don’t let her alter the routine of your life. Test the 
world, whether it is a fair-judging one, or whether it is prone to 
believe evil rather than good.” 

“ Would that you were my only judge !’’ 

“ AVhat I would be as a judge acting upon testimony, is a dif- 
ferent view of the case.” 

“ I wish, when Df. Wyatt comes, I could forget this slander. I 
shall not be at ease in his presence. I will be either cold and 
disagreeable, or sad and incomprehensible.” 

“ Act as 3 ^ou always do. Y"ou can if you keep in your mind 
his entire ignorance of what is torturing you. This will enable 
you to meet him as usual.” 

He came. My first impulse was to keep my eyes averted, but 
I soon rallied, and with curious, inquisitive glance, scanned from 
head to foot, one whom Mrs. Moore had assigned to me. My 
lover ! He was a handsome man. I had never thought of it 
before. In his younger days, he must have been my ideal. Eyes 
with a grand unrest in them, set deep, under heavy brows ; head 
well set, not the slightest inclination forward, even with his sixty 
years ; his form still erect. You knew he w^as old, yet you could 


214 


I3EHEN1CK 


not tell liow you knew it. The profusion of iron-grey liair 
(lid not denote age. It might be seen every day ; men within 
twenty years of his number, were gre^'. The heavy mustache 
concealed the mouth. Perhaps in his case, as in many, this was 
the feature upon which was set the “ signet seal”— the one token 
that he was not young. My thoughts were, after close scrutiny, 
‘‘ You might pass for forty-five. To some women you might not 
sue in vain, even at sixty, setting aside the temptation of your 
ample fortune.’’ How did Kudolph Gault win the woman that 
this man tried to win ? How many unaccountable acts there 
are in every woman’s life. A trite remark, and a true one, about 
them, I had read somewhere: ‘‘They are always sacrificing 
themselves or somebody, for somebody else’s sake.’’ 

Eeally, I wish she had sacrificed herself, if sacrifice it were, 
for this noble old fellow. He would have been a father to me. 
Father ! The name touched a tender chord. The desire grew 
strong within me to take the iron-grey head, and press it be- 
tween my palms, or rest it on my shoulder, and give to the 
thoughiful brow a kiss of love — a daughter’s love — reverential 
and fervent. He had no idea of what was passing in my 
thoughts. 

^‘You are abstracted, to-night. Miss Ward,” said he; ‘•think- 
ing of the tall «axon, who left in despair, or the pretty French 
girl f” 

“ Doctor, 1 was thinking of you, then.” 

“Of me? Good, good! What was it? Out with it. ‘A 
penny for your thoughts,’ let them be good or bad.” 

The look of delight wjis genuine. It fiided out when I said : 

“ I was wishing, as 1 looked at your good, kind face, that you 
were my father.” 

He replied : 

“ Wishes make curious contretemps, Xow, I, to speak can- 
didly, am not altogether desirous of being your father.” 

“ How discourteous ! I am too troublesome, too wayward ?” 

Was it my vanity that gave to his manner a tenderness even 
greater than a father’s. Had he kept his heart so long ‘ a sei>ul- 
<}hre, for me to roll the stone away ?’’ There was nothing of the 
lover, when he spoke in an indifferent tone, flying suddenly from 
the subject under discussion : 

“ I had a visitor to-day, from the country, a lady you know.” 

“ So had I. Mrs. Moore, was it not ?” 

“ It was. She came to me after she had seen you, and had re- 
ceived your permission to divide the estate with her.” 

“ She made the proposition. I would have acceded to it, with 
your consent and approval.’’ 


BERENICE. 


215 


‘‘ She will never get iny consent. My answer was decisive. 
We run a narrow chance to win, but we keep her out of it. We 
will appeal if we lose; and, in fact, to delay as long as we can, is 
iny determination. Loser or winner, it shall be about the same 
toiler. The law’s delay is only ecpialed by the ‘insolence of 
office.’ She shall be an old crone, ere the suit is decided.” 

“You think we have little chance of gaining it?” 

“ Very little. Mrs. Gault’s sanity was questioned at the time 
the will was made. It was when she shut herself out from the 
world. When you first w ent to take care of Winnefred, you sel- 
dom had a chance, even to get a look at her.” 

“ She did act very strangely. No wonder they question her ability 
to dispose of her property judiciously.” 

“You must not say anything to that effect, even if you think it.” 

“ Then I w ill not speak of Mrs. Gault unless I am compelled to. 
I must then say that I knew she w’as mad.” 

“ You are objectionably truthful. There were times when she 
was sound in mind; but to find the responsible moments is like sift- 
ing California’s sands, in poor locahties, to get at the golden midgets 
of the brain and prove them genuine. One wash of hers w as pal- 
pable throughout — big as a nugget: you were to inherit the prop- 
erty.” 

“ On that point she was botli sane and insane. But, Doctor, it 
occurs to me that an immense amount of money will be squandered 
in carr}fing on the suit. Might it not be better employed ? You are 
almost convinced that at last w^e lose 

“ AVe are acting out Mrs. Gault’s wishes. AVe should fight to the 
last to keep her enemies fi’om hving under her paternal roof — her 
last wish. AA^e must get the bird of ill-omen out of her snuggery. 
She argues that ‘ a bird in the hand is woidh two in the bush but 
she shall not keep the bird. AA^e have more money to spend on the 
suit than she; Ali-s. Gault left sufficient. Chancery w^iU end it. In 
case of defeat I’U hang it there till Berenice is dead and forgetten,” 

“ Suppose we die before her ?” 

“ Probably I shall. I have thought it over. One steadfast in pur- 
pose shall be left to guard o’er you. In case of my death, 3'ou see 
i have deteimined what I shall do.’^ 

“ Say what I shall do to make you my heir in case of mine. Alake 
a wfiU of suppositions ? In case of such a result, I gaining the suit— 
Moore versus AA^ard— my heirs are — who ? Please dictate.” 

He laughed at the oddity of my will. 

“ No hesitation. Fill the blank.” 

“ AAhth your name. Doctor ? AAfith a small exception or reserve 
you should be my heir.’’ 

“You will survive me. To-morrow must not pass without a bona- 


BERENICE. 


21G 


fide wili being drawn up; but no i^ropeity to me, Ruth. I have 
enough for my purposes, and no heirs,’’ he resumed. “ As far as I 
can see, tliough I am not a Blackstone, in case of your death the 
property would be hers, after all our sti’uggles. You had better, for 
many reasons, make this provisionary wiU. ^lake it in favor of any 
one you like — not me. 1 am rich enough. The moment it is com- 
plete she shall be notified.” 

“ Why so (piickly 

“ To make it umiecessary for you to be taten off hy heart disease, 
<.)r some speedy ilhiess. 8he might long for your death, out of a 
desire to attend your funeral, and admire the corpse.” 

“ You think I might go to sleep some night upon a pillow of roses, 
never to waken more ?” 

“ We have unscrupulous foes. We must be armed on all points.” 

“ And I am to make a \rtll — who have nothing but what your 
beneficence supplies me 

“ 1 dole out to you in a niggardly way, nothing but what is yours; 
left to me, for your use, by Mrs. Gault. Would you have me betray 
the trust a dead friend placed in me ? Ah, by the bye ! Zillah 
inquired for you to-day. She is tired of the Mount, with Mrs. Moore 
as its mistress, and wishes to attach herself to your service.” 

“ Zillah ? She is a treacherous w’oman. I cannot bear her.’’ 

“ She may come to you, as she says, with the best of motives, and 
then again she may be an emissary of Satan — or Berenice, which is 
the same. You liad better take her. She should enter no other 
household, as she may betray secrets.” 

“ I have none. I never had but one, and that I kept for another’s 
sake.” 

“ But Berenice and Dr. Moore have. We should, then, for the 
sake of Rudolph Gault, try to shield his daughter, whom I despise.” 

“ What can I find for Zillah to do ? I wait upon myself.” 

“ Make work of some kind. Miss Pinkington whl suggest em- 
ployment, I imagine.’’ 

“ La me ! Yes, she might wait upon Tabby, open and shut the 
door at her appeals, andkee}) her coat smooth; for really, Puss neg- 
lects hev pet'soneUe lately. She is not half the cat she was.” 

Let her mind the cat then. Between Miss Pinkington, the cat, 
and you, she may be kept busy.” 

“ All her sins had been for Berenice,’’ so Zillah, the poor Magda- 
len, said when she entered my service. “ She had always loved me, 
but durst not show it. She was glad I w'as to be rich. Such a 
pretty lady, who sang so like any actress.’’ 

But I shall never be rich, Zillah,” I rephed; “ the property" is in 
law, and w iU not be claimed by any one in a very long time, perhaps 
not in my lifetime.” 


BERENICE. 217 

“ Miss Victorine gave it to you. How can they keep you out of 
it?” 

“ She was not in her right mind. It does not stand in law,’’ I an- 
swered. 

“Ah, Miss Ruth! No wonder she was crazy. I could tell you 
something that would make your haii’ stand on end.^’ 

“ Can you? TeU me anything about myself, Zillah, or rather about 
my mother. How did I come to be mixed up with the Aubrej^s ?” 

“ Miss Ruth, I have only heard rumors about you — nothing very 
particular in them.’’ 

“ What were they ?’’ 

“ Your mother was an actress in some country, where Miss Vie- 
torine and her husband were traveling. She died — I never heard in 
what way, but it was by some wrong work, I think. An}^ "'vay, Miss 
Yictorine came home and got very ill. She went about in a stupor, 
like one who had lost her memory. When Winnie was born (it was 
only a couple or three months after her return) she was at her 
worst. She knew nothing, nobody, not even her baby, for a long 
time, but when she came to she asked for ‘the infant’. You were the 
child she talked of, whose mother died in another country, where 
they had come from. Miss Yictorine always kept crpng over you^ 
when you laid beside Winnie. Lord ! You were twice as big as 
she, though there were only four months, or five, between you. 
Somehow you were an eyesore to master, and to Miss Berenice. 
They grudged you everything you got, even to Miss Yictorine’s 
tears; they showed it plain. Then Miss Yictorine began to have 
‘spells,’ before she found out how Winnie was, with no sense. After- 
wards, she took to her bed and Dr. Wyatt tended her, and, bless 
you, master got jealous of him, as he paid so much attention to Miss 
Yictorine, sitting by her bedside all night, when she did not know 
him. It was mighty foolish in Mr. Gault, as she hadn’t a bit of 
knowledge. But, you know, she came near marrying the Doctor, 
many years before. She went away with old master, and married 
Mr. Gault. People did say there was some tricky work in that 
match. I know nothing about it. Any way, he got crosser and 
quieter after Miss Yictorine got weU. Sometimes they didn’t speak 
for days, nor even see each other. Master kept his way, and Miss 
Yictorine kept hers until his death.’’ 

^^Was my mother young I Tell me of her, Zillah.’’ 

‘‘From what they said she must have been young.’’ 

“And she was and actress ? Was she of any note — well-known, 
I mean P 

“She used to sing, for I heard Mr. Ethel say to Mrs. Gault 
your voice was 3 our birth-right.” 

14 


218 


BEKENICE. 


“And you do not know wliat city slie lived in ? My mother, 
I mean.” 

“]S^o ; I was a foolish girl then, and cared very little where 
anybody lived or died.^^ 

“Would it not be possible to find out more from Berenice?” 

“Not me, Miss Euth, I have done with her j I’m afraid of herj 
Fm afraid to go there; they might kill me in some of their 
fusses. Whj^, they quarrel until they come to blows. Of a night 
he never gets home unless to raise the house. He slips in and 
hides himself, and one doesn’t know he’s there until they hear 
him. He watches Miss Berenice like a hawk. The other night 
she and that Mr. Fitzsimmons were playing chess and sipping 
<lhocolate and wine. Miss Berenice had her white, shining 
fingers (all Miss Victorine’s rings on them) upon her king to 
shift him to a new square, when in walked Dr. Moore, savage- 
looking and blear eyed, he says in a great, rough voice : 

“Check mated, by heaven !’’ 

Before they hardly looked up, he kicked over the table, away 
went the table and chessmen, and away went Mr. Fitzsimmons 
to get his hat, but he got a kick first ; the doctor’s boot made 
him move. Dr. Moore is a big man ; he’d make six of the little 
fellow Fitzsimmons. Then Miss Berenice turned up her lip at 
him in that scornful way she has. With that he caught her by 
the throat until she was purple. I screamed, and he let her go. 
And, Lord, what he called her! It isn’t fit for your ears, only 
some of it. He said, ‘You vile, wanton ; you’ve been the death 
of one man and the ruin of many. Eric Ethel made a lucky 
move when he dropped you for Euth Ward.’ Miss Berenice an- 
swered back. 

“You told me you were to be Mrs. Gault’s heir. You lied ; you 
knew you were never to get a dollar by her consent.’’ 

“You acknowledge your motive in giving me your name,” 

“Madam! thank me for being your husband and sponsor. You 
had not even the right to your father’s name.” 

“ ’Tis false ! A lady, born and bred, to endure this. Leave 
me, sir ; leave my house ; never dare enter it again.” 

“This house is famous for having masters who have no right 
to be in it. Your father had none, no more than 1. He was a 
Scotch, or perhaps, an Irish adventurer. He came from his turf 
and bogs to settle down here in luxurious ease.” 

Then Miss Berenice looked like a crazy woman^ she was so 
wild, as she said : 

“If you speak of my father again. I’ll kill you.” 

“How ; by poison ?” 

“Lord, Miss Berenice couldn’t stand any more. She flung a 


BERENICE. 


219 


vase at him, and he the mate of it at her : it scared all the ser- 
vants. Old Isaac begged them to save the disgrace to the old 
house. I wouldn’t live that way for no money ! I kept running 
and dodging all the time to save my head.’’ 

‘‘Well, Zillah, you need not be anxious for your head with me. 
I thank you for the story of myself, and hope you will recollect 
other things concerning me. You have told already more than 
any one else ever did.” 

“Shan’t I comb you, Miss Ruth 

“No, Zillah, I always arrange my own hair.’’ 

“But if you were never combed you can’t know how pleasant 
it is. Let me pass this three or four times through your hair ! 
What a sight of it you have !” 

“Well, comb me, as you call it,” answered I to please her. 

The habit grew ui)on me. I found it exceedingly pleasant un- 
der her soft touch, to sit and dally away time in thoughts of the 
future ; gazing at the mirror — Tabby, myself and Zillah reflected 
in it. Tabby spent most of her life lying upon the rug with a 
leonine family. The one, in life, was quite as harmless as theone 
in worsted. vShe had become an invalid, averse to appearing at 
table. The effort of raising her paws and placing them as props 
to her heavy frame was too much for her, consequently she 
dined, lunched and supped on the rug. Really, I would as soon 
have driven Miss Pinkington out as her pet. One night I pre- 
ferred enjoying the quiet of my own room to lectures. Zillah en- 
tered, interrupting my reverie. 

“Miss Ruth, here’s a pitcher of milk ! The old lady gave it to 
me for the cat as she was locking the i^antry. She said so kind, 
^Zillah, give Miss Ruth a glass of this milk and take one your- 
self.’ Isn’t she a nice old lady ?” 

“Don’t call her old lady, call her Miss Pinkington.’’ 

“I thought she was old.” 

“So she is, and she knows it, but when people are old, they do 
not like for it to be spoken of. Every one should have their 
names given to them without mortifying qualifications, as old, 
fat, lame, lean.” 

“Very well. Miss Ruth, I will remember. Shall I pour out a 
glass of milk for you 

“Yes, do, and place it on the table until you comb my hair, 
and for yourself fill a glass ; what is left will do for puss, she’s 
never hungry, never allowed to get so.’’ 

She filled the two glasses (different in form and size) placed 
them on the table, while she put the remainder in a saucer be- 
fore her ladyship upon the rug, who deliberately walked away 
from it. But in a momqpt afterwards, true to her nature, as 


220 


BERENICE. 


Zillah was combing my bair, I saw Miss Tabby, reflected in the 
mirror, dipping her whiskers into one of the glasses. Sipping a 
drop or two she jumped down again and stretched herself upon 
the rug. I marked the glass, and thought to let Zillah take that 
one. She had not seen the cat’s movement and could not feel as 
I did. 

“I’ll drink the milk now, Zillah, if you please,” said I after 
she had combed my hair. The glass she offered me was the very 
one the cat had polluted. I carelessly remarked, “Change 
glasses ; this one is thick at the edge. I do not fancy drinking 
out of it.^’ She took it and gave me the other. I was thirsty 
and drank it off*. It was delicious. Zillah put the other glass, 
untouched by her lips on the mantel-piece. A frightened look, 
as I had asked her to change glasses, first struck me as being 
strange. Again, she did not take the milk, her confusion, all 
combined, set me to thinking. Could she have had a motive for 
giving me the glass which she offered and I rejected! My sus- 
picions were aroused. I fixed my eyes full upon her j she quailed, 
she grew livid with fright, she cowered before my gaze. I studied 
out the whole plot. Poison ! She was light in color, she became 
white. Terror and humiliation were pictured plainly in her 
face. I glanced upon the floor, my rescurer was already writh- 
ing about uneasily. Her feline propensities for theft had brought 
her ruin. The fatal sip would soon end her career. Mockingly, 
trembling with anger and excitement, I spoke : 

“ Zillah,’’ said I, “ drink of that glass. It is delicious —cool. You 
look feverish. How it agi’ees with puss. See the effect of a few 
drops. She is in ecstasies. Her stolen sip has made her unusually 
comfortable. . Zillah, your work is not complete. God watches over 
your intended victim. Woman, you were sent here to poison me.” 

“ No, Miss Ruth. I swear it.’’ 

“ Hush ! hush ! Take tliis glass out of my hand. Drink ! drink ! 
or I wiU open the window, caU for some one, and hurry you off to 
prison. You tried to murder me. Here is the proof: this glass of 
milk, intended for me, is poisoned ! The cat is nearly dead from a 
few drops of it. Miss Pinkington will be here in half an hour, then 
woe to you about that cat.” 

“ Oh, Miss Ruth, for God’s sake have mercy on me ! Miss Ber- 
enice drove me to it.” 

“ Bribed you to do it, you mean. How much did she promise for 
your job?” 

“Please, Miss Ruth, don’t ask me. KiU me; but don’t let me 
speak I” 

“ I give you to justice, to the law, unless you render to me an ac- 
count of this mimder. Was ever anything so wicked ? TeU me how 


BERENICE. 221 

it was to be paid for. I give you a very short time to decide upon 
it.” 

“ After your death she was to get the estate, and I was to receive 
a large brick house, filled with furniture. That’s all. Miss Ruth.” 

For such a reward you w’ould kill one who never harmed you, 
one who trusted you, in spite of all warnings. There is no palliation 
for wickedness like this. You were raised in the house, Zillah, with 
the ladies; not in the field, where you never came in contact with 
any but your own race. You saw how I suffered at the Mount, 
and now wdien life is somewhat pleasanter, you grudge it to me. Go, 
wretch ! Go back to her who sent you. I’ll not molest you. Tell 
her that in the event of my death, my property is secured to another. 
I destroy all proof of your guilt; the poison I throw into the street. 
G-o. I never wish to look at you again. Don’t plead. Not another 
word.” 

“ Miss Ruth, do trust me. I will be your faithful servant. Don’t 
cast me off, for Miss Victorine’s sake. The devil tempted me. My 
heart was hardened when I thought of my fathers death.^’ 

“ Should I suffer for what a cruel man did years before I was 
born? That is a shallow excuse.” 

“I do not say it is right ; but, as the preacher says, when peo- 
ple sow brambles, they must not expect grain to grow up any- 
where near, in years to come. I never felt kind to any of the 
color that killed my father.’’ 

“ But I was not one of the family who did it, or glossed over 
the deed. More responsible was Berenice, for her father should 
have watched over his slaves. The sequel show^ that he did not 
do so.” 

‘‘ I was wrong and wicked. Forgive me, oh, do, Miss Ruth. 
Don’t send me from you. I want to prove to you what I can be.’’ 

“ Leave me for the night. I’ll think of it.” 

Miss Pinkiugton came in from lectures, in her merriest mood, 
just as Zillah Lett the room. 

“ You missed a treat, to-night.” 

([ congratulated myself that I had missed the one in the 
glass.) 

“ What was the purport of the lecture?’’ asked I. 

I shuddered at her reply. I thought she had been listening at 
the door. 

“ Antidotes, humerous, of course. I recoguized glimpses of 
^ Ovid’s Metamorphoses,’ in lov^e’s antidote. I regretted you 
were not there. It kept me laughing all through it. Where is 
that Zillah f’ 

Gone to bed, I suppose.” 

So early ? How do you like her, Ruth ? Bless me ! What’s 


222 


BERENICE. 


the matter with Puss ? Why, how she breathes! My poor cat I 
What ails you ? Miss Ward, please turn the gas higher. Come 
here; look at her. I left her so well. She followed me to the 
hall door ; then I thought of her milk, turned back, and gave it 
to Zillah. She got it, I suppose f* 

“ Yes ; there it is in the saucer. She wouldn’t drink it, though.” 

‘‘What do you suppose is the matter Avith her?’" 

“ Well, truly, I fear she is about to die.’' 

“ Cats have nine lives. Drop a little milk in her mouth, while 
1 hold up her head. The proverbial tenacity of cats to life, gives 
me hope.” 

The mouth would not unclose for the drop of milk ; the eyes 
were glassy, but Miss Pinkington would not believe the worst. 

“What if we give her a mustard bath f’ I suggested. 

“Wet a cat ? and especially Tabby, Avho is so averse to water V’ 

“You are right; cats are not aquatic. What else shall I do ? 
I cannot think of anything.” 

“ For pity sake, call Zillah !" 

A more terrified woman than Zillah was, as she appeared at 
the door, could not be produced. I kept her from betraying her 
own wickedness. 

“ Zillah, what has happened to my cat ? Have you given her 
a knock with the broom, or in any way injured her?” 

“ She was combing my hair,” interrux^ted I ; . “ puss was jtlay- 
ing round the room at the time." 

“That was a sign of sx^eedy dissolution, for she never 
now-a-days. N^ver is she known to do so.” 

“ Isn’t she very old ?” 

“Old! why, no! She is stretching out to die, oh, my x^ooi 
cat !” 

Her emotion overcame her; the fine, lace-bordered handker- 
chief was under Grimalkin’s head. We drew ux) the corners over 
the face, veiling it as unseemly. With the face the subject be- 
comes so. 

Love wasted upon a cat ! How strange! Many a man would 
be made happy with half of it. 

Moral. — Every Avoman, of x^^issable appearance, who, in 
dearth of loving human objects, is compelled to x^itmper a cat, 
stands to the world, clear as a sign- board in the highways, a 
living and speaking reproach to man. 

My hope of future safety was in the event of my enemy being 
fully informed concerning the nauire of the provisional will. It 
took but a few moments to scan the situation, and determine 
what to do. 

Zillah came to me in the morning, looking as guilty as her sin 


BEKENICE. 223 

could make her. I spoke sharply to her, beiug undecided as to 
my course of action. 

“ I have not passed a pleasant night, Zillah j the glass of milk 
was before me, and the poor cat, as she writhed and glared upon 
you. How could you bear to look at her V’ 

“ Oh, Miss Ruth,, do forgive me^ It was a dreadful crime, I 
know ; but you will have mercy upon me? you will not i)unish 
me ?’’ 

“ I shall not betray you, though I am almost tempted to do so. 
As another effort might be successful, I must be safe, you should 
not be exposed to the inducement. You will be compelled to re- 
turn to her who instigated you to kill me.” 

Never! never could I be tempted to injure you. Don’t, don’t, 
for God’s sake, send me to Miss Berenice 1 ’ 

“ Do not plead for farther mercy than my silence. I have 
been a wonderful woman not to deliver you up, to i)ay the pen- 
alty of your crime. There are conditions for this leniency. I 
will state them : Set out immediately, for Mount Marah j be the 
bearer of a communication to Mrs. Moore. Remember, also, to 
return with the reitly, within twenty -four hours.’’ 

I listened to no entreaties, insisting upon her submission, with 
unusual sternness. She seemed to tlread the task, but she set 
about accomplishing it. 

My surprise was great, when she returned w ith the answ’er, at 
the appointed time. The wwds were few : 

‘‘ Your note is a mystery. I can not, even with Dr. Moore’s 
assistance, unravel it. Beiienice.” 

“ Don’t believe her !” exclaimed Zillah, as I read it aloud. 

Doctor Moore never saw it. She was in the library, standing by 
the window^ I opened the door as I walked slowly in. She could 
not wait for me to speak. MTien she saw your handwTiting 1 thought 
she would drop at my feet. Then she came to, and read it, and 
said to me: 

“ What will she do with you ?” 

This made me very angry with her. I answ^ered: 

“ With you, you mean. I am going back again to find out.” 

“ What !’’ said she; “ you would forsake me ? — betray me ? — wdia 
have so long trusted you ?” 

“ To the one who spared me while I was in her pow’er, I shall, of 
course, be true. No woman who w'alks the earth would keep that 
from ruining us, but Miss Ruth. She’s the best and noblest lady 
that ever lived as every one know’s.” I doubted her. She saw it, 
and grew more earnest. “ Upon my life and honor. Miss Ruth, thi» 
is what I said as I walked away. I left her standing there like a 
statue. I did stick to Miss Berenice a long time, because she 


224 


BERENICE. 


taught me to read and write, and gave me ribbons and clothes. She 
made me feel as if I was a human being. She is the only one that 
did; but she never was noble enough to do what you have done. 
There’s no melting her heart.” 

She showed some surprise at my hasty decision as I spoke : 

“ Zillah,” said I, “ if j^eople knew what I am about to do, to keep 
a poisoner, who attempted my destruction, in my service, they 
would laugh at my credulity. I know now that, concluding as I do, 
to keep you, that I am something of a fatalist. If I am to die by 
you and your mistress, I will die, even if I strive against it. Let me 
tell you, my death wiU bring no good. Should I inherit the estate, 
after my death it will pass into other hands. Not possibly can it 
belong to you or Berenice. I have wi’itten to her to teUher so. You 
have no personal hatred to me; you can not have. AU inducements 
for my death are taken away. I retain you in my service.” 

Her gratitude was unbounded, or rather the show’ of it was. In a 
few months I forgot my dread, slackened my vigilance and w’atch- 
fulness, and at last trusted my enemy. No servant ever had more 
tact. She knew’ w’hen to leave your presence and when to return, 
when to speak and when to hold her peace, what to say and w’hat 
to leave unsaid. In fact, her services w’ould have given satisfac- 
tion to the most querulous fault-finders. I often felt convinced she 
knew my thoughts. If they w’ere of Eric (which they too often were) 
ehe mentioned just at that moment some trivial circumstance, or 
some particular event or conversation of the past at Mount Marah, 
connected wdtii his presence there. She knew the subject pleased 
me. The books being upon the table, elicited her remarks. She 
held up one of them, saying: 

“ This book is one that Mr. Ethel gave you a long time ago. I 
saw Isaac many a time (but he didn’t know I saw’ him,) when he 
carried them in your room from Mr. Ethel’s, and put them on the 
table. I can tell you something else I saw’. Miss Berenice opened 
a package one day that came to you, after Mr. Ethel went away. 
She took something out. It looked like a card, and filing it in the 
fire. Did you miss it ?” 

“Yes, I missed it.” 

“ She will never trouble you any more. Miss Ruth; not while she 
knows that Zillah is with you, and is vour friend.^’ 

“ Why ?” 

“Because she is afraid of me. I know’ too much of her. She has 
been guilty of awful things. I am eye witness to them.” 

Cruel Atropos held her scissors, theh sharp glittering blades 
closing in relentless purpose; Clotho adroitly pulls back the thread. 
I am saved ! 

Not poppy nor mandragora, no drowsy syi’up to medicine me to 


BERENICE. 


225 


sweet sleep, but stryclmine ! supreme, diabolical condensation ! 

My enemies are cheated; I have been warned, by a cat. “Noth- 
ing which God has made is useless.” A maxim which was never 
narrowed to my comprehension, when insect life and its uses were 
tangled questions. How clear became the philosophical view of the 
cat I had never considei'ed even a utility. Now, as many unfortu- 
nate ones in scale of higher progression, she had become a sublime 
sacrifice for one who never cared for her. i 

The drama was over. Locked in my room, I had no part to i)lay, 
nothing to do but to brood over my averted doom. In Christian 
faith, I believed that my escape was not chance. The great con- 
trolling Power had saved me from Berenice. 

Wicked, monstrous woman ! The words uttered in the bitterness 
of my heart brought quick response, self-questioning. A calm ret- 
rospect succeeded the fearful tension of mind. I stood at the dread 
tribunal where we become our own judges and accusers. The in- 
ward voice said: 

“As heir presumptive to the Aubreys, you are blameless; but 
there are treasures dearer far. Take these, what follows ? Angels 
become demons. What is life without the objects for which we 
live ? 

“ Ah, Nemesis ! Spare me ! Pity me ! The love of Eric Ethel was 
an unfortunate episode in my life, and hers. 

“Episode !” answers my judge, severely, “The atom in your uni- 
verse may be to her the whole universe.’’ 

Could I turn back the tide ? It may be sin for the heart to quicken, 
the cheek to pale at a voice, a footstep, or a glance. We have no 
defense, no j ustification but our helplessness and impotence. Poor, 
erring heart ! Even its master cannot give it freedom. He may 
crush it, in the cruel strength possession gives, but it will still be 
bound. 

How shall my enemy be appeased ? Will nothing less than my 
life suffice? I never willfully harmed Berenice; I will not now. 
With all proof against her, I do not punish her. I am more merciful 
than she. I have suffered, but I pass meekly under the rod. 

“ Berenice works evil for evil,” reason replied. “No nature can 
correctly measure an antagonistical one. Since we cannot become 
imbued with the same passions, nor actuated by the same motives, 
our judgments must be erroneous.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 


“HEK HPLUiT WAS A PASSION FLOWER BEARING WITHIN IT THE CROWN OF 
THORNS AND THE CROSS OF CHRIST.” 

‘^You are surely a remote descendant of the ‘Seven Sleepers/ ^ 
exclaimed Grace, with a merry lan^jh, as she stood by my bed at 
nine in the brighrest of mornings. 1 had promised to be up at eight 
to accompany her on some literary jiroject that was never quite 
clear to me; all I knew was, that we were to set out early to 
avoid the excessive heat of later hours. 

•‘Dear, oh dear! are you here, and I sleeping/’ I exclaimed^ 
rubbing my eyes, and feeling ashamed of my remissuess. 

“Yon were dreaming ; iileasantly, too, 1 imagine. I hated to 
awaken you.” 

“My morning naps are oblations to the offended Deities of the 
Night ; for really of late I never close my eyes untd near morn- 
ing.” 

“Bells and newsboys have a way of breaking up such concilia- 
tory arrangements with me.” 

“1 never hear them, such entrancing and impossible events oc- 
cur in shadow land, such poses of material things perv^ade my 
morning dreams. You would laugh at some of them.” 

“Pelon upon Ossa, or vim verm f Nothing is impossible to us^ 
in dreams, when the drowsy brain has neither consistency nor 
equilibrium ; when Puck’s rosy fingers, dripjiing with poppy 
juice, are pressed upon the heavy lids.” 

“We jiass restless nights ; we do not care to know that Eros 
is up, that Aurora in her flashing robe has her flying horses 
hitcned to her chariot to meet the hot-headed Phoebus.” 

“Jupiter should be aipprised of the scandal current concerning 
their amours.” 

“Rather than act the spy, we morning sleepers take all for 
granted that goes on before nine in the morning, for when we do 
get up, Aurora, like as not, slips behind a cloud, and Phoebus, 
with his one fiery eye makes us shut both of ours. Morning 
dreams are the sweetest of all dreams. Why should we rise 
early and forego such delights.” 


BERENrCE. 


227 


* ^‘But the bells and newsboys. I can’t sleep for them. ^Tis 
so funny to watch one awakening — the expressions of terror, 
surprise and silliness, as if to say, ‘Who are you ! Where am I, 
and where are the blue spirits and grey that were with me a mo- 
ment ago*?’ The connective link caught up, every thing is just 
as you lett it ; you hud yourself neither richer nor poorer than 
you were upon retiring for the night.’’ 

was richer just now. You really destroyed a grand fancy. 
I was in Paris.” 

^‘You shall retaliate by tearing down my castles any morning 
at fiv^e, if it please you. Perhaps I shall be at that tiaie in 
Heaven. ’Tis as easy to be there, in dreams, as in Paris.” 

A shrill sound came through the open window. “Pull account 
of the mur-r rder !” “Full account !” on he went. 

‘‘He has not deceived me,” said Grace. “I profit by previous 
experience in bringing up suppositious murders, battles, and 
duels.” 

As the sound grew distant there came, in the resonance, a fa- 
miliar name. I sprang from the bed, pulled my paper from its 
safe deposit in the slats, and eagerly glanced over the columns. 
A i)aragraph struck terror to my heart. “Dr. Moore mortally 
wounded !” Grace sat white as a spectre. A dread that it was 
in a rencontre with Dr. Wyatt filled us both with dismay. 1 lound, 
as I read, that to my unsi)eakable relief, he had no connection 
with the affair. 

“It was about that wife of his,” said Dr. Wyatt, two hours after, 
when he called upon me. “She speaks, generally, of her husband 
as her ‘uncouth bear.’ At times the bear would growl and show 
his teeth. She has tamed him effectually.” 

“ Will she reward her Brutus by offering him her faithful love, 
think 3"ou ?” asked Grace, as she arose to leave us. 

“ Not she,’’ replied Dr. Wyatt; “ her intimacy with him was to 
annoy her husband, and to gratify her desire for conquest. She was 
in earnest once in her life: I believe that was in Ethel’s case.” 

“ He might return, now,” I remarked, more to get his opinion than 
to advance my own. With a significant expression of penetrative- 
ness, he replied: 

“ Can the scattered romance he taken up ? You swept away even 
the ashes.” 

Grace had departed. We were alone. In a confidential tone, he 
asked : 

“ Woidd you take back the love you scorned ?’’ 

“ I did not scorn his love. I could not be deceived again, as then. 
I am free.” 


228 


BERENICE. 


“ You betray too deep a regret in your tone, for indifference. We 
make terrible mistakes, sometimes.” 

“ Certainly; it would be to my shame to feel otherwise. Years 
have passed without his seeking me. The shallowness of his pro- 
fessions is evident. He urged me to be ambitious, when at that 
time, I was young and womanly. I cared little for ambition.” 

“Tell me all about it. I can then the better advise.’’ 

I continued, excitedly: 

“ At last he did cast a morsel to my starving heart. Slowly, grudg- 
ingly, he gave it. I did not see so far into his motives as I do now, 
consequently, I was happy. Mrs. Gault’s assertion that he was a 
‘ fortune hunter,^ was true. I believed it; I believe it still. Our 
engagement ended. W’’e parted in anger.’’ 

“ He was wronged. He loved you. He never cared whether you 
were rich or poor.” 

“ Why did he at first try to make me ambitious ? ‘ Seek a pro- 

fession,’ ‘sing,’ ‘go before the public,’ he would say, time and 
again.” 

“ To ascertain whether love held supreme power. Men are ever 
dubious of the love of women very much younger than themselves.” 

A new light dawned upon me. 

“ It may be so,” I replied. “ I am sorry, if I wronged him then; 
but I am not in love with him now.” 

“ Blame no one but yourself, if you find that you are in love with 
him, and regret your decision, when it is past remedy.’’ 

“ I will blame no one. I have weighed the matter well.’’ 

“ I rejoice at our resolution,” said he. “ You think it strange I 
should exult at the idea of your preferring art to the love of Mr. 
Ethel.” His expression as he said this, was a perfect puzzle to me. 

“ You know my choice will make me happier than love ever will; 
therefore you approve it,” answered I. 

“No, no; I feel that no one is good enough for you. And now. 
Miss Ward, let me impress upon your mind the fact that I have 
money in trust for you, which will make unnecessary any effort of 
yours to acquire a fortune.’’ 

“ Our account increases by taking from it. By what rule do you 
work out such results ?” 

“ The amount first was large. You are aware of that ?’’ 

“ You would have me live in idleness ? My pride and my con- 
science oppose it most strenuously.” 

“ Pride will be another angel’s fall. I have not a person in the 
world to inherit my fortune but you. And then again the Aubrey 
estate is to come. What will we do with it ?” 

“I hope we will not gain the suit! Mount Marah is unlucky 
property. A curse is upon it.” 


BERENICE. 


229 


“You are a savage in your superstitions ! Eolly ! Shall I get a 
fetiche for your oratory, instead of a crucifix % Seriously, Ruth, I 
have something to tell j^ou. It might change your views of your an- 
ticipated fortune, if you knew that it was rightfully yours. ” 

“ I am all attention. Make me see the case clearly if you can do 
so.’- I listened eagerly, thinking the attempt at establishing my 
rights to the Aubrey inheritance might throw some hght on my his- 
tory. 

“ As I told you, I was the lover of Victorine Aubrey — the beUe, 
the beauty, the heiress of the country. Mr. Aubrey made no objec- 
tion to my suit, only as to the early consummation of our marriage. 
The stipulation was, that we should not marry until Victorine had 
seen more of the world. He took her away with him to see the 
world, and there in the world she met Rudolph Gault, and returned 
as his wife. Mr. Aubrey, whose health had been declining for years, 
died while they Avere abroad. She came back to her home, an or- 
phan and a bride. It was a great shock to me. I must own that I 
did not bear it as a man. The mystery of her marriage has never 
been satisfactorily unfolded to me.’’ 

He paused. I Avondered Avhat his history could have to do with, 
justifying me in being the inheritor of the Aubrey estate. He re- 
sumed ; 

“ I met her, in after years, in public and in private. Through her 
husband’s choice, 1 was the family physician. No allusion to our 
former relationship, ever passed our lips, but once.” 

“ She Avas a true wife.^’ 

“ Not in thought, I hope. You look surprised at my words. Is it 
Avonderful that I wanted her to think of me ?’’ 

“ No.” 

“ She did not forget her girlhood’s love. In a feA’^er Avhich caused 
delirium, she betrayed her thoughts. She feared him more than 
ever, after that betrayal. How she met him, God knows. I never 
sought the knowledge, for fear ill would come of it. I thought I 
AV'as resigned, or rather prepared, for anything, but when I first saw 
them together, in the city, I found I was far from being so. I Avould 
have stolen her from him, and thought it no sin, to take her out of 
bondage, if she had only given me one word, one look of the olden 
time. But, no; she wrapped her soul in its mantle of cold purity. 
Her servile heart strove against its first pure passion. Her life was 
passed in wrestling with it. 

“ I have told you her history, which 1 am sure she never did. She 
was, so 1 have heard, always reticent about the past.” 

“Never a word escaped her lips, of Mr. Gault. Were I to wed 
one whom I could not love, I fear I would make his life extremely 
Avretched. I could not do otherwise than betray my aversion.” 


230 


BEKENICE. 


“ You are transparent; you can hide nothing. I look into your 
thoughts as I would through a glass in a show-case.’' 

“ And what you see there is tinsel ? Bo you turn away, with the 
old warning, appliant to meretricious gew-gaws ? ^ All is not gold 

that glitters.’ ” 

‘‘No, Buth; I see a great mass of pure, genuine gold, that re- 
minds me of — well, I am at a loss for comparison.” 

“ A nugget ?” 

“ Gold without alloy; that will do better.’’ 

“ What a pity the world in general does not estimate me as you.’’ 

“ Let me give you a j)iece of news, to counterbalance the sad bud- 
get we have been perusing. Mr. Ethel is in the city.” 

He looked fixedly, searchingly, at me, as he spoke the name. 

“ Mr. Ethel ! Can that be possible ? ’ 

I felt the coldness at my heart. I know I was white as a ghost. 

“ Don’t, woman-like, put this and that together, and make signifi- 
cant, his appearance, at the time of Dr. Moore’s death.” 

“ Certainly not. He did not, he could not know, that Mrs. Moore 
was so soon to be free,” I answered. 

He did not return here to see her with the idea of making her, at 
some future day, his wife. A month, or a week ago, as you say, he 
could not have known that she would be a widow to-day.” 

“ Have I accused him of knowing ?” 

“ I told you, just now, you were transparent. You had better de- 
cide to meet Mr. Ethel. You will always regret not doing so.” 

“ The meeting would be unpleasant to both, and particularly so 
to me.” 

“ Under risk of offending, I must be plain with you.” 

“I could not be offended at anything you would say; I trust you 
to guide me.’’ 

“ Proj^ounding one question with two. Do you know your own 
heart ? Are you indifferent to the j)erson just named ?” 

“ How can you doubt it ? I have not seen Mr. Ethel for two 
years. He has made no effort in that time to see me.” 

“ Your reasoning is not conclusive. Persons may not meet for 
ten years, yet remember the old vows as if they renewed them every 
day. One, an angel now, I am sure, never ceased to remember her 
first love, even though she was another’s.” 

“ Ah, if I had only known her troubles, when she sat alone, wrap- 
ped in gloom, her lips locked, her heart unsheened by sympathy, I 
would not have allowed her so much time for thought.’’ 

“ The privilege of thought is a blessing incalculable. Everything 
can be taken from us but this. And then no one need know our 
thoughts. I may sit by your side, saying pleasant things to you, and 
yet be wandering off* in the bleak wilderness of the past, or in the 


BEEENICE. 


231 


flowery groves of tlie pictured future. You would be none the 
wiser.’^ 

“ The Gaults traveled, did they not said I, bringing him to the 
subject. 

“ They passed about half of every year in Paris, or Italy, and this 
gives me a new starting point. Did you know that they had four 
children ? The elder, Yictorine, was not at all like the Aubreys.” 

“ I saw her name on the tablet at the tomb, and another one’s 
name, who died in a little while after, Theodosia.’^ 

“ She died as Winnefred, of a slow fever, insiduous in its approach 
and continuance. Another died in Europe during their travels.’^ 

“ Poor Winnie was the only one left to them.” 

“ Her affliction is a painful story. It is combined with yours in a 
great degree.’’ 

“ With mine ! How ?” 

“ They were sojourning in Paris at the time of the Carnival. You 
can have no idea of the streets of Paris in such scenes of excitement. 
It is positively perilous to every one to walk in them. I have the 
account of a tragedy which occurred, many years ago, told in its mi- 
nutest details, in an old newspaper that I reserved. Let me lend it 
to you, it will be more explanatory than I could possibly be.” 

“ I do not desire to read the paper. Tell me, I implore you, of 
this tragedy. I have been put off many times in this same way. 
Let it out at once.” 

Clearing his throat from its huskiness, he told me all. 

“ In the midst of promiscuous hilarity in a crowded street, there 
is danger. Horses became restive and unmanageable. Persons are 
hable to be kiUed or maimed.” 

He still hesitated. My heaid throbbed. I knew he was trying to 
find the least fearful way to make me know a fearful fact. 

Resuming the theme, he said: 

‘‘ Maskers are hideous, grotesque, terrifying. Frightened horses 
may, and do, dash on without possibility of being controlled. In 
the dense crowd of maskers, spectators, carriages and other vehicles 
dashing along, you know what might occur ?” 

“ I know — some one was killed in the streets of Paris. Was it 
my mother ?” 

“ It was, my poor child. I hated to tell you.’’ 

“ I saw it long ago, in my dream. Was she fair and young, with 
hair like sunbeams ? And was not I with her when she died 

“You were; and she was as you describe — young and fair.’’ 

“ I saw it all — even to my little hands stained with blood. MTiose 
carriage was it? Ah, I know; you need not say, for I know too 
well”— 


232 


BEKENICE. 


“ Rudolph Gault’s — its sole occupant, his wife. Poor Victorine ! 
She came near dying in Paris, of grief.’’ 

“ My mother ! my martyred mother !” I cried, in agony. 

“ Three months after this, Winnefred was horn. Your mother 
was blessed to what Victorine was.’’ 

“ My mother was crushed to death, mangled, trampled upon. It 
is too horrible ! Tell me more, no matter what it be — sin, shame, or 
crime. There can be nothing more than this.” 

“ Nothing is known, except that you were fatherless. Your mo- 
ther had arrived only the day before, in Paris, to fulfill an engage- 
ment. She was a singer of merit, and of rising fame. Her pro- 
fessional name I forget. You will find it in the paper, which I kept, 
because the chcumstances were connected with Victorine; — a fuU 
account of the sad affair.” 

“ And this is my claim to the estate, the right 3'Ou would make in- 
disputable ? I am to be benefitted by my mother’s untimely and 
unnatural death ?” 

“ These are casualties, Ruth. We must abide the consequences. 
We can not strive against destiny. Consider how long ago this oc- 
curred. I, since it, have grown old. I was in my prime then.’^ 

“ Come back, Ruth,” said he, kindly, “ from your sorrowful dream 
of the past, to the present. Recollect, the carriage is waiting for 
us. Grace, w^hom we are to take up on our way, will be impatient. 
We are off* to the opera; your interest lies there, business woman 
that you have become.” 

“ The mystery is solved at last. I hate the name of the Aubreys. 
They crushed my mother to death; mangled her fair form, perhaps, 
to a loathsome mass. They crushed her child; — kept her for years 
in a state fa^ worse than a, maniac’s. And now one of the family 
hunts me down, hates me and tries to murder me !’’ 

“She is a Gault. Victorine suffered; you know not how much. 
She never was herself afterwards. To that accident more than all 
her troubles, might be attributed her insanity.” 

“ She did not treat me as one Avhom she had wronged. To serve 
her I was brought from the asylum, to nurse and tend an imbecile; 
worse than this, to bear the oppression of Berenice. She has 
wronged me most deeply.” 

“ She had a care over you while you w’ere at the asylum. She 
paid liberally for your maintenance. She was kept at first from 
bringing you to Mount Marah by the agent of iU — Berenice. Had 
you been vicious, or anything less than you are, she never 'would 
have given you the task she gave, to guard her helpless child. She 
saw so great a benefit from your presence that to lose you was to 
her impossible. Not even to fulfill the promise she made you could 
she resolve to do what was right; a want of decision which was, at 


BEEENICE. 


233 


least, unjust, but then you must think of Victorine as she became, 
through prolonged suffering, Aveak, wavering, almost selfish.^’ 

“ Had 1 been wicked, or careless, or cruel, my lot would not have 
been cast at Mount Marah.” 

“Never! Your reputation as a child-angel brought j'ou to the 
serAutude.^’ 

A poor re Avar d for goodness. Angels have often heaA^y yokes to 
bear betAveen the wings.’’ 

“ A sacred, solemn trust it was. You had a life, nay, a soul — or 
the light and hope of a soul — in your poAver. Had you been an or- 
dinary child, Mrs. Gault Avould have left you, as a duty, part of her 
foidune, and never looked upon your face. From the time of your 
life Avith her, I think she determined to make you her heir. With 
as much j ustice as you can claim for youi* condemnation of the Au- 
breys, she might have said to you: ‘Your race has been my ruin, 
blighting my life, stealing the light of reason from my child, (h’iving" 
me to despair and madness.’ ” 

“ I see. I realize the truth. She suffered by me and mine, as I 
by her and her’s. Our burdens were heavy. She has lain her’s at 
the SaAuor’s feet.” 

“ Trust your fate to me, Kiith,” said he, eagerly; “let me be your 
guide.” 

“ I fear to promise what you request. One may lead me to where 
the paths become intricate, where I must need a Avise head and a 
steady hand; then I Avill go my Avay. I am self-willed. I can’t help 
it. Come, Tis getting late. Grace aauU be impatient. Are you of- 
fended with me ? You look either angry or sad.” 

“Not at all. I am neither angry nor sad. I was thinking, just 
then, of Dr. Moore.” 

“ Ah, yes; poor Dr. Moore I dying for a woman ! — a wicked, 
heartless woman.” 

Dr. W^yatt and I visited the dying man, the accomplice of Ber- 
enice, in getting, at all sacrifices, the Aubrey estate. He knew our 
estimate of him. 

“ You ahvays disliked me ? Mrs. Gault, in presence of many 
persons, accused me of poisoning her child, or of being an acces- 
sory to the crime. The child’s disease baffled my efforts. I found_ 
out Avho was at Avork against me, but it was too late.” 

“ Who was ?” I asked, Avith breathless interest. 

“ Berenice,” he answered. 

It was no surprise to us. We did not evince any. He continued: 

“ My suspicion had been aroused by finding papers marked ‘ poi- 
son.’ Watching for developments, thinking of some mahcious ser- 
vant, I found Berenice. I caught the hand in Avhich she held the 
crushed envelope. The poison she had just dropped into the tum- 
15 


234 


BERENICE. 


bier from which the poor child drank. There w'as no one in the 
room blit Berenice and Zillah. I think Zihali knew^ it. The child 
w^as dying. She had accomplished her purpose. I should have ex- 
liosed her. I have hated her ever since. I must die for such a 
w’oman.” 

“ From my soul, I am Sony for the injustice I have done you,” 
said Dr. Wyatt, with emotion. 

“And I have wronged you in thought; forgive me,” said I. 

“ I do not blame either of you. After Mrs. Gault’s death, I ques- 
tioned you, Ruth, about the razors being in the escritoire.’’ 

“ You did, and my reply was what it still would be. I had never 
seen the interior of it, until the fearful night when you rescued me.” 

“ Berenice pretended to beheve Mrs. Gault’s destruction to have 
been planned by you.'’ 

“ Wicked Berenice ! She never thought that of me !” 

“ The scene in tlie garden was not unknown! to her.” 

“ She had tliat to w'drk iq)on ?” 

“ There could be nothing too monstrous for her to attempt. I left 
nothing to surmise. Berenice purchased razors; was not that proof? 
As to my marriage, the Aubrey estate had no ^ntluenee upon it. 
Berenice never cared for me; she loved another. The man she set 
to be my destruction, served her piispose. I have no hard thoughts 
against him. He tiled to keep away from her She (b*ew him 
back. In either case, my death or his, she would be free from me. 
Forgive my hasty manner at the reading of the will. I w^as in a bad 
humor, that day. Indeed, I have been a moody and a desperate* 
man, for a long time.” 

“I have not an unkind feeling tow^ards you,” answered I. 

“ There can scarcely be a doubt,’’ Dr. Wyatt continued, “ that 
Mrs. Gault’s mind was destroyed by sorrow, by her wrongs, and by 
dread of evil to come ?” 

“ A life wdth little but sorrow’, from beginning to end, together 
with a predisposition to mental ailment, could end no other w’ay. 
Dwelling continually upon its owm w^eakness, the mind evoked the 
doom it dreaded.” 

He ceased. A shade of sorrow, and of agony, passed over his 
face. • 

“ Is there anything I can do for you ?” I asked; “ I w’ould be glad 
to serve you.” 

Huskily, in a whisper, he replied: 

“ Nothing.’’ 

Dr. Wyatt spent the night at his bed-side. Berenice came. He 
denounced her as his destroyer, and forbade her presence. Public 
opinion branded her. Her numerous amours were discussed; often- 
est and bitterest by those who were but little above her in morality. 


BERENIOE, 


285 


ov ill that sort of morality which makes all conquests, all sins, all 
sacrifices, in love, coming* of them, fairly won trophies to be lain at 
the shrine of vanity. 

The return of Eric Ethel, at that time, was an unexpected sorrow. 
I tried to be indifferent, as well as to appear so. My friend, who 
had a strange interest in my heart’s secrets, said to me : 

“ You are not the being who came hither to be my cheery com- 
panion, for the winter days. Rouse, I pray. Mr. Ethel is coming 
here; he is a friend of Dr. Wyatt’s. You need not consider it your 
visit; only note the effect of your presence. What proof have you 
that Mr. Ethel would not, at this moment, give years of his life, to 
speak to you of the old story 

“ No proof, but I doubt. I will have nothing to do with his com- 
ing here. Do not mention my name to him, I beg of you.” 

“ You will see him 

“ Of course, just as I would any of the Doctor’s friends.’’ 

The sole desmes and motives of my life were near consummation. 
I would not be daunted. I did not live for love. With this resolve, 
the reward beckoning me on, I began my career. My appearance 
was considered premature ; but then I had trained my voice from 
the time I knew its power. My masters were the bii*ds in their 
morning carols and mid-day conceids, their 'wild refrains and tri- 
umphant notes in the woods of Mount Marah. When I was sorrow- 
ful I sang most. Night after night, when I came to the city, no 
amusement charmed me but operatic music, not a note of which was 
lost to my ear, and scarcely one in my memory. The idylic lives of 
^lalibran. Pasta, Sontag and others had a fascination for me. My 
instructor was an artist, a devotee and an enthusiast. He would 
extdaim with warmth of manner: 

“Grand! Sublime! Play that over, Miss Ward.” The time 
being past by many minutes, I would remonstrate. “No matter; 
the morning work is not to us a task. You have the soul of art, 

without it we are moving the mountain. There is Madame R . 

I never linger a moment past tlie time with her. Diahle ! She is a 
dead woman, who in vain I try to infuse with the life, the divine 
fire, the spirit of music !” 

Mediocrity in art I, too, despised. I did not rest self-assured or 
inactive. I would tread the stage in the majesty of genius, the 
poetry of inspiration. 

“Y'ou begin at the foot? Nonsense! Don’t mind them. You 
have been climbing all your life,” said my friend. 

When the stars still v/ere in the morning sky I arose, to render 
some sudden thought or reveahnent of character, hitherto clouded 
and uncertain. At midnight when every sound was silenced, I was 
patiently, perseveringly striving to satisfy myself in some pose, in- 


236 


BERENICE. 


tonation or gesture, wherein my previous efforts had failed to please 
me. To happily express a thrill of dehght, a throe of agony, a glance 
of tenderness, a smile of love or scorn, was to me an immense advan- 
tage gained. In these silent hours my existence became a mesmeric 
trance. Ninetta was in my place, with her hands lifted upward ta 
her weary brain, her eyes gleaming mth phosphorescent hght; or 
Desdemona, striving to fathom the mj^stery of Othello’s estrange- 
ment; or Lucia de Lammermoor, on her sacrificial purpose bent: 
wandering waifs from the realms of fancy, each and all, in their short 
reign, invaded my sanctuary. 

My sage and cautious mentor vainly urged to the last moment 
that ’twere better to take up the sceptre than be compelled to lay it 
down, and that ’twas sheer madness to be announced as a primor 
donna, or equivalent to it. There was no precedent to justify my 
j)roceedings in historic or histrionic annals. There was; I cited 
them to him. Others came with warnings. One remarked that 
“ the race was not always to the swiftest of foot,” nor “ success in- 
evitably the reward of merit.” I laughed at the copy-book maxims, 
and refuted them in contradictory ones, as old and hackneyed. The 
words of Dr. Wyatt came with a home thrust. I might have given 
them credence; I did so, for my spii'its were low at the time they 
were spoken. After he had gone I pondered on their warning. I 
still remember the intonation as he said : 

‘‘You are depending upon the most unjust and remorseless of 
mistresses — Caprice. Her ways are inexplicable. Prejudice 
spreads like a conflagration. Some secret enemy may put you 
down effectually. You have not prestige. Good wine must be 
branded to be appreciated, even while we are obliged to smack 
our lips at its rare flavor. ’’ 

“I have no enemy,” I replied, “but Berenice, and I hold her 
ready to crush her within my grasp, if she dares attemxff to turn 
the tide against me.” 

“She will move stealthily ; none will perceive her agency. But 
perhaps she has enough on her hands at present. This sad affair 
must engross her thoughts. After she is at liberty to do further 
mischief, none can defy her. Public ox^inion will, by that time, 
have settled the point of your merits.'' 

******* :}:*:ic* 

Trembling, breathless, the neox^hyte behind the footlights- 
stands, awaiting her doom ! Would a long life of Fame’s richest 
rewards repay her for the agony and suspense of the ordeal Z 
Of the welcome, at her entrance, as she ai)pear8, a fairy vision, 
to the wondering audience, any young and fair debutante may 
be assured. After that, conies the test, the trial of her own 
strength as well as the mercy or magnanimity of her judges^ 


BEKENICE. 


287 


iShe may well shrink appalled at her venture. Those associated 
with the stage by hereditary right, who have been led progres- 
sively into its intricacies, accustomed to the sight of an audience, 
-can have no conception of the suffering of one who suddenly en- 
ters life upon the stage as a representative of the fiction which 
she must, to succeed, make to herself an actual and vivid reality ! 
What though Ninetta was no longer a suppositious being, I had 
lived in her life— not a pulse, or thrill of her heart, but found its 
-corresponding one in mine ; yet it all seemed to have been vain. 
Motionless I stood, only to be aroused by knowing that I must 
do so. Mechanically acknowledging the welcome greeting, I 
still seemed about to swoon away. Clamorous, noisy, even bois- 
terous was the welcome. It saved me, by giving me time to 
realize the necessity of instantaneous exertion. I rallied, drew 
a long breath, and stepped firmly to the front of the stage, to re- 
<jeive renewed greetings. I often wondered if this uproar was 
not managed by mj^ best friend. Dr. Wyatt. Utilities are always 
to be found to serve us in such scenes of peril. Strange thoughts 
flitted across my mind in all my trepidation, while waiting for 
the noise to subside. How odd seemed this great frame- work of 
faces, the array of jewels, the moving fans, the flashing colors ! 1 
scanned the arena, hoping to find one face among the myriad, 
the star still hovering in my horizon. The face which every wo- 
man with a soul has framed away in the silent depths of her 
heart — a present joy or a bitter memory. Until the grave hides 
us, all are seeking, waiting, watching a face. As if ’twould even 
follow thoughts and desires 5 appear in scenes where reason 
urges upon us the conviction that there it can not, perhaps, dare 
not be. We search, we strain our aching eyes over the blank of 
the living sea around and before us, to find the starry billow up- 
on its surface rising for us. Ah, it is too often the Dead Sea. 
Its Iruit the ashen one of disappointment. Silent, starless, leaden, 
unyielding waves, that give us back no magic mirror with our 
dear one's face. A thrill of wild pleasure swept over me as I 
looked and hoped. He was there to abstract my thoughts from 
my ideal existence. Throwing off the sweet, delusive spell by a 
mighty effort, I became the impassioned ‘‘Ninetta’^ in her sorrow 
and fatalism. Until after the first act, when the shouts of ap- 
plause died away to murmurs, he was lost to me, as if he had 
never lived. The encore was my awakening, but, alas, he had 
gone. Among notes and flowers laying before me that night was 
a magnolia. Upon its waxen petals were tracings that cut 
deeper, darker lines than on those stained leaves. “The thorns 
I reap are of the tree I planted,’’ my aching heart replied. The 
germ of ambition, you, who upbraid me, planted that. 


•288 


BERENICE. 


With my success came no joy. My heart was heavy, my lips^ 
sealed. Congratulations and eulogies jarred upon me. Com- 
plaining of fatigue, 1 hurried away to the solitude of my room. 
The sight of Zillah annoyed me ; her prattle grated on my ears. 

“Make a better fire,” said I, interrupting some of lier remarks^ 
“I am freezing.’’ 

“You know you never like much fire.” 

“To-night I do. Don’t argue with me Zillah.” 

It struck me that I was unjust, venting my chagrin upon the 
blameless. I answered, in a better Irame of mind, her next 
question. 

“Was there many people at the opera. Miss Ruth ?” 

“The house was full.” 

“Just look at the flowers ! Must I put them in the vases T’ 

“No ! Take them away 5 all but this.” 

“Scratched up and spoiled aint it ? Did they throw all these 
to you ?” 

“I gave away a great many.” 

“You don’t look well, Miss Ruth, since you came home.” 

“I am tired. The night has been verj- exciting, and my head 
is aching. I will retire immediately.” 

“Who do you think came here directly after you went ? and 
he stayed a good while ; almost a half hour.” 

“I never guess anything correctly. Tell me at once.” I grew 
paler and paler at the name of Mr. Ethel. 

“Whom did he inquire for f ’ asked I, as calmly as I could. 

“For you.” 

“Why did he remain after hearing I was out ? lie knew I 
was at the theatre.” 

“1 told him you would come back home before you went there.” 

“And you knew I would. not do so. What was your motive ? 
But never mind your motives. What did he say ?’’ 

“He said, as 1 opened the door for him, ‘Zillah !’ Then he 
asked how I came to be here, and I told him I was waiting on 
Miss Ward. Then he wanted to know if she was at home, and 
I told him you was not, and asked him to sit and wait. And 
then I stood up by him to get him to talk. 1 began this way : 

“My patience, Mr. Ethel,” says I, ‘fits many a day since I heard 
your name.” He cleared his throat without answering ; then 
again he said : 

“So Mrs. Gault died?” 

1 says, “Yes, and left Miss Ruth the jiroperty, but they have 
gone to law with her, and she won’t get it,” and he said : 

“That’s a pit}".” 

And 1 said, ‘‘Miss Ruth don’t think so. She won’t need it any- 


BERENICE. 


23U 


how. She is an opera singer now, and she will get plenty of 
money.’’ 

“Well, well,.’twas so funny; right then, in \valked Madame 
Biifilla’s girl with your wdiite satin dress. She called your name 
out as she gave it to me. I laid it on the piano and took it out 
of the box. Mr. Ethel, says I, this is Miss Ruth’s dress ; ain’t it 
a beauty (I wanted to set him wild about you.) ‘Yes,’ says he, 
‘very pretty.’ Its a bride’s dress, says I. I made him think you 
were to be a bride ; to be married to the old doctor. Ila ! ha ! 
ha! Ain’t it funny 

“You told Mr. Ethel a falsehood, Zillah. For what purpose 
w'as it, pray ?” 

“Because he didn’t like to Lear it. Y"ou know Mr. Eric never 
did treat me half right in the old times. I like revenge.’’ 

“Give me word for word of w^hat passed. Don’t deviate from 
facts.’’ 

“ Wes,’ says I, ‘Miss Ruth is to be a bride, and a mighty pret- 
ty one she’ll be, too.’ You know I heard you all talking of the 
bride of the play, and of your being her. So it wms no lie. Miss 
Ruth. He said, ‘Ah, indeed, a bride! She is to marry Dr. 
^Yyatt then, as they say V And I answered, just in a joking way, 
‘You’re as wdse as a prophet,’ which is every word that passed be- 
tween us. He \vent off looking mad, just for not being particu- 
lar how^ he got answers to his questions.” 

“Did he say he w^ould call again V 

“No. He took his w^atch, looked at it, said he had an engage- 
ment, and placed his card on the receiver.” 

“Go down and get it.” 

“Eric Ethel.” Nothing more or less could I make of the tw^o 
words, as I held it listlessly in my hand. 

“Miss Ruth, have I done very wrong f ’ Her voice w'as hate- 
ful to me. 

“It was wicked to tell a lie,” I answered, emphatically ; “a 
wrong to yourself and to your owm soul!” 

“My soul ain’t much to frighten me about. Won’t he know 
better when time passes and you do not inarr^- f’ 

“He does not live in this cit3^ ; he ma^" never know it.” 

“Are you angry. Miss Ruth ?” 

“I wish that .you had not told him that I was going to bo mar- 
ried to Dr. AVyatt.’’ 

“I am sorry. I thought 3’ou sent him away at the Mount, and 
hated him. If I had thought you cared for him — ” 

“Did I tell you that I cared for Mr. Ethel? Zillah, j’ou talk 
too much ; you are too presuming, girl. Go ! I shall need you 
no more to-night.” 


240 


BERENICE. 


She left the room; two questions came to me as she disappeared: 
Is she knave or fool ? Is she working again for the enemy ? 

Miss Pinkington remarked, next morning, that Mr. Ethel was at 
the opera, and sat quite near her and Dr. Wyatt, during the first act. 

“ He called last night, answered I, with weU feigned indifference. 

“ And of course you did not see him 

“No; after I had gone, he came. Zillah answered the bell, and 
had a conversation with him, during which she gave him to under- 
stand that I was engaged to Dr. Wyatt, and, indeed, to be married 
immediately.’’ 

“ How dare she assert such a falsehood? 'Tis not her place to an- 
swer the bell. I never did like that Zillah. Depend upon it, ’twa.s 
an act of malice. The girl is deep and designing.” 

“ She did not think, surely, that Mr. Ethel had any particular in- 
terest in the question of my marriage; nor has he, I am confident.” 

“ He came here to find if there was any spark of the old love left 
in your queer nature, for him. I am quite convinced of it.” 

“ Or in Mrs. Moore’s queer nature,” said I, calmly, but with an 
aching, tii*ed heart. 

“ Impossible ! He does not love that woman. However, we will 
see. Let me get Dr. Wyatt to bring Mr. Ethel to the house. He 
may not otherwise come, after what Zillah told him.” 

“ I could not presume upon his calling once, to invite liiin here, 
merely to undeceive him about a point which may not have any in- 
terest whatever. Mrs. Moore will be rich. The Aubrey estate is 
the acme of his hopes, the object -which he seeks. You’ve heard 
that, I know.” 

“ You were unjust^ being deceived by a mad woman. Dr. Wyatt 
told me all about it.” 

“ Well, if I -was, it is too late, now, to mend matters.” 

“ Let me try my project. If nothing occurs within a week, you 
will allow me to invite Mr. Ethel here, as I intended, will you not ?” 

“ You wiU not be convinced as to the bent of his affections; they 
lean to his early love.’’ 

“Ruth, Ruth; I would save you from a life of sorrow. You are 
self-willed; you are voluntarily blind to what is plain before you — 
that Mr. Ethel loves you better than fame, or fortune, or even better 
than Berenice.’’ 


CHAPTEE XVII. 


EXTRACTS FROM Rl’Tn’s -JOURNAL. 

The ardor that marked my first entrance upon the stage existed 
no more. I returned to the audience to answer the encore, wishing 
they had not approved and recalled me. The soul, the fire, which 
gave life to my jjersonations, had died out. Would this immobility 
ever, even to death, clasp me in bonds of ice ? I asked my heart, as 
I fuUy realized that imitation had succeeded and supplanted inspira- 
tion. Yet my star shone steadily. The audience coiild but approve 
what they had heretofore approved. It was the stereotype of the 
first glowing page. 

I received a note from Berenice. It read: 

“ Among Mrs. Gault’s papers I found sometliing you w^iU prize — 
a locket, with your mother’s hair; a few words penned by her hand. 
Come to-day, at eleven. You shall receive them. Berenice.” 

I said nothing of the note or of my intention to visit Mount 
Marah, for I knew objections would be urged. I did not wish to 
hear them, as they could not prevent my going. 

I reached the old, sad place. I rang, but no one came. The en- 
trance being neither bolted nor barred, I w'ent in and on as far as 
the house, without being observed. Neither care nor order was 
evident in any part of the place. Berenice is living in seclusion to- 
day, brooding over her sins, and the consequence w^as my chaii- 
table conclusion. And again, I thought as the property was held 
by a brittle tenure, her interest in the care of it could not be en- 
grossing. A servant, whom I did not recognize, called to me that 
“ Miss Berenice” was in her room; an equivocal invitation for me to 
enter. But sujiposing it to be, as it really was, from the lady her- 
self, I proceeded to the apartment which the girl designated. 

Cleopatra and the Caesar w^ere before me ! Berenice was half re- 
clining upon a silken lounge, in attitude designed to display the 
peerless outline of her form. His head was bowed down to hers, 
listening to some strange, sweet story. One hand shaded his eyes; 
the other clasjDed hers. She wore the soft, filmy fabric, India MuU, 
ojDened at the throat, so white and j^erfect. Her exquisite arms, bare 
nearly to the shoulders, were clasped with coils of jet and gold — 


242 


BEKF.NICE. 


snakes. 4’lie woman, more than tlie ornaments, made me think of 
tile serpent. Her hair floated aromid her in studied effect — a black 
(tloud falling over snow. I wondered whether I had surprised them. 
He had not seen me, I knew. I would get away before he did so; 
Init with nonchalance, most surprising under the circumstances, she 
called me as I "was retreatmg: 

“ Come in. Miss Ward. Its of no consequence, Mr. Ethel’s being 
here. Come in.” 

Hurrying out of sight and hearing, in my confusion, I reached the 
I'oom of terror. The door was 02 :>en. I entered it for a moment’s 
refuge. I listened for her coming, asking myself, while waiting: 
Did this woman bring me here to witness what I have witnessed, or 
have I given her another cause to hate me ? I knew not how to act. 
My visit should not be made in vain, I thought. Of course, she 
would seek me, to deliver the treasure for which I had been deluded 
to Mount Marah. 

The vault-like room brought horrid recollections — the drawer 
where the case of jewels was hidden; the night scene witli the mad 
woman. 

As 1 sat lost in reflections, the df)or opened. Eric Ethel entered. 
He spoke one word: 

“Ruth!’^ 

He always made my hai'd name music ! How sweetly its sound 
fell upon my ear! 

“Mr. Ethel.” 

“ ‘ Mr. Ethel,’ not ‘Eric,’ noAv ?” 

“ No, never more !” 

“ Shall 1 never hear from your li})s, my Christian name V” 

“ As the Eric of my love ? My heart cannot reproduce the ban- 
ished idea. It lias nothing left to know you by, but tliat which 
makes you a despicable cheat, a clever imitator of a pure passion.'’ 

“ATou know nothing of my heart. You discarded me for th(‘ 
ravings of a lunatic. Distrust has been our ruin. You are dear to 
me as ever. Trust not to-day as evidence. I can explain all.” 

“Explain! Mliy, only a moment ago, I saw you, as a lover, re- 
newing past vows, or, it may be, as a penitent confessing past 
offences. Even my intrusion did not break the enchantment. You 
did not move, until Berenice called my name.’’ 

“ Ah, that name ! associated with all that is good and pure. That 
name dispelled the illusion. Ruth, do let me explain how the unfor- 
tunate interview occurred, with this woman, who has an influence 
over us for e%dl.” 

“ You need not take the troubk-. I am no longer Ruth. I am 
the slave of the public.” 

“Not the slave;— the world’s idol, and mine.’’ 


BERENECE. 


“Mockery! 1 have taken the path your supciior wisdom indi- 
cated as being the right one. I am happy — inconceivably happy ! 
Believe me, there is no dearth in my soul; no need. The blossoms 
of my girlhood’s Eden, are dust, but they enrich the soil, from which 
sjnings perennial bloom. This life, to which you doomed me, suf- 
fices for every desire.’’ 

“ Your instincts are sufiering a cruel A\Tong. The ring of youi* 
voice assures me of your misery. Say I have a reign in your heart. 
1 can explain what seems dubious or inconclusive. Will you hear 
me ? I am wretched, lonely. Listen to me. Let me sav I love 
you.” 

“ Your love once made me happy. You were not content, even 
at fii’st, to have me a quiet home-body. You made me restless, dis- 
satisfied. 1 longed for, God knows what ; I suppose for fame. I am 
happy, very hapj^y. Do 1 not look and act as if I were ? If I do 
not, then looks are lies.’’ 

His manner changed. In a cold, measured tone he said: 

“ That you were not happy was my last hope. You are to marry 
Dr. Wyatt. That is the secret of your happiness.” 

“ Chance and destiny have decreed that you shall marry Berenice.” 

He looked imploringly at me. The words were the ones he had 
spoken to her. Our eyes met. It was my last look into his dear, 
true eyes. Berenice stood before us. A minute longer alone with 
him my fate had been a different one. I felt his power, even in the 
face of facts against lihn. I would have cast myself at his feet, ask- 
ing his forgiveness for my doubts. I would bave given him vows, 
tears, kisses, for every cruel word I had spoken. 

She came. Opportunity had gone. ( We never hold that word at 
its full value. ) i had dallied with it, while refusing him my love, 
my earnest life love ! To its remorse and its remonstrance, I cruelly 
replied : “ Down, down !’’ I wove the shroud closer and closer. 
’Twas hke a corpse, still warm, that poor love of mine, when I buried 
it forever. 

Berenice glanced suspiciously at iis. My face was immobile; his 
I know not of it. I could not look at him. 

“ Come with me. Miss Ward, to my roc^ni,” said she. 

“ Why did you object to remaining when you were there V ’’ 

I accompanied her to her room. Taking a small envelope from a 
drawer of a bureau, she gave it to me, telling me it was what she 
liad alluded to in her note. I placed it to my lips, reverentially, 
grateful to her; for she might, with less trouble than she had taken, 
have destroyed it. She was true to her nature, on this occasion. 

“You know,” said she, “by this time, from some one, that your 
mother died a death of violence ? She was crushed under Mrs. 
(xault s carriage, during one of the carnivals, in Paris.” 


244 BEKENICE. 

“Yes, I know,” answered I, huskily,, as if something- were clutch- 
ing at my throat. 

“ And von know, too, that she was a public character, like your- 
self?’’ 

“I do not comprehend your coarse expression, ‘ a public char- 
acter.'’’ 

I had lost what little chance I might have had for her mercy, by 
being found in conversation with Eric. I saw it in her angry looks, 
as she replied: 

“ 1 am not elegant in my discourse, being apt to call people and 
professions by their right names ; singers and actresses are ‘ public 
characters.’ ’’ 

“ I did not know that they were. Placing them, then, in juxtapo- 
sition to the opprobrium of their calhng, is not every one who can 
be either, or both, actress and singer? Genius is heaven-bom. 
Bather the boon for me, than the wealth of a Kothschild — than the 
throne of a queen. I remind you of the dignity of such professions, 
solely for my mother’s memory.” 

“ Let it have the status you give it, since your vanity requires it. 
We never meet without quarreling, do we ?” 

“No; therefore, ’twould be better that we did not meet. Could 
you not have sent the package to me, and sj^ared me ?” 

“Spared you! You are more wretched than when you came. 
You would rather not have seen Eric Ethel sueing to me for the love 
he lost, or threw away, by your coming between us. How did you 
like the tableaux ? Was it not dramatic ? I intended to crush you, 
in return for what I suffered, years ago, through you. I have suc- 
ceeded. Look at your face in the mirror. How old and haggard 
you are, in your youth ! ’Tis curious, the tilt of life ! One day we 
are in the mire, the next, high as the means used for our exaltation, 
can cast us. Love is uncertain as a child’s caprice. Tell me. Miss 
Ward, during those precious moments, which I could not control, 
did he assert that what you witnessed, was only circumstantial evi- 
dence, bearing falsely upon our real relationship? If he did, 1 
throw the lie in his teeth. I will call him here before you. He 
dare not assert it !’’ 

“What he said to me is his secret. Berenice yon had better 
not provoke me too far. I might not keep all secrets. There 
are one or two which I hold, left to my discretion as to reveal - 
ment. Their records are not found in State archives, though the 
majority of State laws, is by the keeping of them, outraged. 
You were not at your husband’s bedside when he was djTng — 1 
was. Dr. Moore had a tale to tell me ; I could but listen. You 
look at that glittering blade on your toilet significantl 3 ^ It is 
steel, and it draws your fingers. Both metals and minerals are 


BERENICE. 


245 


inaguetic to you. It is large enough to do the work that at this 
moment suggests itself. That little blade which trims your dain- 
ty hnger-tips so deftly, can easily silence Ruth Ward. But there 
are other witnesses to Dr. Moore’s dying asseverations. You can 
not murder all.’’ 

She leant on the marble slab. We were both standing — I at a 
distance from all dependancies ; I needed none j my intense feel- 
ings kept me strong. Our eyes were fixed upon each other — 
mine to watch her movements and thwart them. Paler grew 
her lips, and cheeks, and brow, until every particle of the life- 
look and warmth of her face died out of it. She did not move, 
nor speak, nor seemed to breathe. She stood like a living petri- 
fication. My words, for the time, had made her heart stone. 
For a moment I thought of alluding to a later crime, the futile 
attempt of Zillah, but in looking at her desperate face, I dared 
not. I recollect her now, as she was that day. Her white robe 
had been replaced by deep mourning, leaning her face upon her 
white jeweled haini, as some fearful resolve was framing in her 
mind. Her large black eyes glaring upon me, chained me. I 
dared not leave her. My face must, to her, have been a mirror 
of my soul, true as hers to me with its angry and wicked i)as- 
sions — defiance, hate, scorn ! A memorable interview ; but I 
kept it from every one. I had become old and eratic in my ways 
which made them regardless of my absence, or of my move- 
ments. My friend said to me next day : 

^‘You who were so even-tempered, whose ways or words never 
jarred, have become pevish and ill-natured. What a change in 
my bright singing bird. AVhat has come over you V' 

“Because I tire of unmeaning compliments and fulsome praise 
you think something is radically wrong. You try to set it right. 
Is not ennui the most natural consequence of surfeit ?” 

“But we dare not even speak to you of Mr. Ethel or of that 
wonder- voice of yours. You once listened anxiously. I could 
see your heart quicken its beatings when I glanced over a cer- 
tain column appertaining to the stage and the criticisms. I used 
to pity youj you were so harrowed up with expectation.” 

“I would like to feel the interest I once felt in myself and pro- 
fession. It was a painful pleasure. I believe I depended on its 
jBtimidating draught for my very existence.” 

“Paradoxical ! A painful pleasure ! ’Tis true enough, as you 
say, some pleasures are half pain.” 

“All are. Was ever any so happy that there was not with the 
happiness an indefinite woe, a dull cloud in the glory of his sky ? 
It might be an augury, a dread that the full realization of hai>- 
piness on this earth is its end. Our highest reach attained, we 


BERENICE. 


•24(j 


tire of it. We cannot hold the dizzy summit. I have come 
down, and am unfit for the real. In mind as in matter, change 
and destruction are the immutable laws.’^ 

‘‘True, indeed,” said my friend. “Even in our affections our 
idols disappoint us. We have had Gods to worship, we find them 
only mortals when they tire of deluding us. We grow indiffer- 
ent to them ; to indifference succeeds aversion. 

“Why, doctor,” remonstrated Fannie, “you do not believe that 
we can love each other through a long life and after death ? I, a 
sad, lonely old maid, going down all alone, have a cheerier heart 
than Ruth, on the green slope with the best of her journey before 
her. Yet, no wonder. From your childhood, Ruth, your mind 
has been wrapped in one unchanging phantasmagora of hideous 
deformities, moral and physical. And then Mephistopheles must 
come, as the final.” 

“Mephistopheles, indeed,” chimed in Dr. Wyatt. Eric Ethel 
loves the girl. If she would say what he is waiting to hear all 
would go right.'' 

“I know how Mr. Ethel is waiting for any word of mine to re- 
call him ! Disabuse your mind of the belief, for it is an erro- 
neous one. 

“Of his predictions in another quarter you have heard. I do 
not credit the rumor. You may have better reasons for doing 
so.” 

“I have positive proof.” 

“Let him go, then. There's good fish yet to be found in the 
sea. I hate to stand by idle, while you are moping and looking 
disconsolate. I have a project. How would you like to take a 
trip to Europe?” 

“ I thought of it of late veiy often. I would like to get away from 
all m}^ trouble — from myself. Let us go when my present engage- 
ment is over.” 

“ Your getting away from 3'ourself is not an easy task. I’ve tried 
it and failed. ’Tis like the fool trying to escape ffom his shadow.” 

“ We may lose the thought of our troubles in a new round of 
scenes. In the old one satiety tlmows us back upon memory. To 
see the world is the only wish I have.” 

“ And to let the world see you ?” 

“ ‘ There’s life in the old land yet.’ AYe can but try what travel 
will accomplish.” 

“ It is a fixed fact that in two months we set out. The question 
is, where ? Speak, and I obey.” 

“Paris, by all means.” 

“ Shall I secure your engagement, or will you trust to your get- 
ting one after your arrival ?” 


BERENICE. 


247 


“ I fear I might disappoint the Parisians. Let them hear me. I 
have no passpoiii by my nationality to favor.’' 

“ I could cite instances which would compel you to acknowledge 
your error.” 

“ Miss Pinkington will be glad to get away from home for awhile. 
I shall hate to leave you, my best, my truest, my most revered friend 
and guardian.” 

“ A long sentence, prettily spoken.” 

After my determination my mind was more composed. I knew 
the change would be for the better. The whirl and turmoil of a gay 
city, the anxiety of pleasing a new and critical audience, would give 
me no time for reflection. And then what a joy was in store for me; 
I should meet Eunice. Many times I had pored over her letters, 
follomng in her wanderings, trembling for her as she passed through 
the naiTow way unscathed. 


CHAPTER XYHI. 


“ Farewell, my queen, my only, farewell! I kiss 
Your hands, your eyes, your dear gold hair. 

Your sweet, warm lips, now lifted— and this 
Is all I dare now- When you stand there. 

As you will stand, years and years apart. 

Through the dim, vague gloaming perchance your heart 
Will wander in its old, sweet, listless way ; 
******** 
l^erchance remember how once— however vain— 

We loved— loved and lost.”— P hoj. 

South-land faded from my sight. I looked longingly until from 
distance and my tears the crowd became an indistinct mass. The 
morning after my departure, I awoke to know the feehng of being, 
in the ideal as in the real, “out at sea.” 

“ Rather a melancholy prospect,” said Miss Pinkington, as we 
stood looking into the briny deep, both having the same thought of 
the “ sad sea waves.” 

“No sun, no light ! The dull, dark sheet above us is the future — 
my future ; a rough sea below, o’er which we traverse — the Past and 
the Present.” 

“ With the wide world before you, and your voice, your beauty 
and your youth, what can you desire?” 

So remonstrated the lady with the bloom upon her heart, fresh as 
the peach blossom upon h«r cheeks, to whom I replied : 

“ My voice has never made me happy, my beauty exists chiefly in 
your imagination. There is something deeper needed — something 
that I am ever trying to find.’’ 

“ In making a voyage of discovery we should not overlook the 
green isles on om' way, for, perchance, they may be near the shores 
you seek. Let us take our pleasures as we do homoeopathy, in 
minute particles. Happiness does not bui’st upon us as a gorgeous 
vision of light — sunshine without clouds. It comes in rays, heart- 
beams; radiating together they make our way bright. Flowers, full 
blown and perfumed, do not bloom at every step. We should seek 
the tiny buds and chary blossoms; search for them far and -wide, 
amid thorns that wound our feet, and arid wastes that parch our 
lips, gathering them for the winter days, when life is sterile, sunless, 
and too sadly real. Flowers of recollection ! Ah, they are very 
sweet, w'hen there are none others in our heart’s desolate garden. 


BERENICE. 240 

Our joys of earth are either in retrospect or expectancy; never in 
the present.” 

“ I am quite convinced of that fact. My own experience is con- 
viction. I must not, as you advise, lost in a mist, pass the green 
islands, \vithout knowing of them and gathering therefrom. Seri- 
ously, if there were anything to write of, a diary of our voyage 
should wile away the dull days.” 

“ Anything to -write of ! See ! The ocean, the sky, the ship with 
its wings spread out, flying along, leaving the trail of crispy, broken 
snow. Are not these something ? 

“ True, I see them ; I know they are grand, sublime, incomparable, 
but then a Cooi^er, and I think, also, a Marryatt, have written de- 
scriptions of the sea before Miss Ward.’’ 

“ Yet every eye sees with its own sight. Every heart feels with 
its own pulse. You might write a volume upon the same subject 
which another has written, and yet neither would be considered 
plagiarisms, nor even imitations, if they were not so. Since you 
object to the sea, another subject jDresents itself. It just struck me 
as being a prohfic one. Our fellow'-passengers ! ” 

“Imagine ho-w ‘ Sketches of Travel,’ by the talented vocalist. Miss 
Ward, w'ould be received at home. In the wake of such a preamble, 
what a leviathan would be expected. Changing topics, I am getting 
impatient to see Eunice. I scarcely realize that I am to be in the 
same city with her, ere long.’’ 

“ My curiosity is on the qui vive. You have talked so much of her 
prettiness and goodness.” 

“ Pretty ! You inferred from my portrayal of her face that it was 
only pretty. Now I know I ought not to describe the sea or any- 
thing else. Say that she is elegant ! Grace in every willowy bend- 
ing of her form ! — harmony in every movement ! The blackest hair 
you ever saw, and the large, almond-shaped Eastern eyes, that I so 
much admire. And her skin ! Its soft creamy look reminds one of 
the pale roses in the gardens at home. Pretty, indeed ! She is su- 
perb !” 

“ The reverse of your style entirely.’’ 

“ I am hideous beside Eunice, even to myself. And then she is 
naive in her manners, and so warm-hearted, and impulsive, too, and 
heroic ! She throw’s off care as a bird the rain-orops from its wings, 
and comes forth all the brighter. She is happily constituted. 
World-loving, too, I believe; while I am only fit to be a recluse. 
After all my visionary projects, my exalted views of a future, I shrink 
from the life I have chosen.” 

“ If you had only permitted IVIr. Ethel to see you, your brow 
would not be so clouded, your heart sad, as it is. Your fault is ob- 


250 


BERENICE. 


stinacy, which, in courtesy, we call firmness. And mark me, upon 
your own ugly rock you dash your hopes to pieces.” 

“ To decline an interview with one who cares not for me was Tvfise. 
Better, far better, as it is. I know' more than you of Mr. Ethel. He 
never wanted to wun me back to him. I had clear and indisputable 
proof, months ago, of his predeliction for Mrs. Moore.’’ 

“ Grace teUs me that Zillah is now in the service of Berenice. She 
was sent to find out my inmost thoughts, and then betray me to her 
mistress. I am, and ever w'as, strangely oblivious to the plainest 
cheats.” 

“ The mere circumstance of her being in the service of Berenice 
does not substantiate the fact.” 

“ Other circumstances combined w'ith it do. Eirst, she refused to 
accompany me, though I offered inducements which ought to have 
tempted any one of her class. Then the falsehood she told Mr. 
Ethel of m}^ approaching marriage, for which no plausible excuse 
nor satisfactory explanation were given. No better proof of her 
treachery is needed. Dr. Wyatt had secured us the attention of 
friends in Europe, wdio would both in a social and professional w'ay, 
promote my interests. So numerous w'ere offers of kindness, that 
wdth regret 1 found it impossible to serve others by allowing them to 
sei-ve me.’’ 

Extravagant eulogies in the daily prints made me tremble. The 
pitch of expectation would have a great fall, I feared, when the 
“ American’’ stood before them in her “ rnaiwellous beauty.” To my 
surprise I read in the daily journals that I sang to compare with 
Malibran ! I wonder the Parisians tolerated me after it. 

“ Mistaken kindness,” I murmui’ed; but not so low' that my patron, 
did not hear me, wdio was w^atching effects, refuting my doubts, re- 
assuring me, until I found myself surging, striving for the highest 
wave in a boiling sea of ambition. 

Critics W'ere not only merciful but magnanimous, making diver- 
sions in my favor, w^hen my career was at its crisis, wdien a feather 
would have struck the balance against me. My failures were “ new' 
conceptions,” “ startling,” “ original.” Notes on rose-colored paper, 
some of them oppressive with musk, lay in heaps every day upon 
my table. Compliments upon my beauty, regret at my coldness and 
hauteur, offers of love, dubious and undefined, yet cei'tainl}’- not 
Uranian, to which I cTeigned no reply, nor took further notice, other 
than to throw' them in the fire or stamp them under my feet in angry 
mood. 

I knew I might have been saved the humiliation. I, and I alone, 
was to blame. But then why regret? What I saw at Mount Marah 
was proof. 

Weeks of my engagement passed, during which I tried in vain to 


BERENICE. 


251 


'find Eunice. Her last letter to me in America, wliicli I received after 
my arrival, forwarded by Dr. Wyatt, told me she was leaving Paris 
with an invalid lady. I concluded that she might be still abroad. 

At last, as she had prophesied, she was in the great world smiling 
upon me, while throwing liowers at my feet. Dear Eunice ! When 
I saw her the flowers came nigh lying without an Acknowledgment 
of them. But I had become too thoroughly an artiste to forget, for 
more than a moment, my ro/c. 

After the smile of recognition I thought not of Eunice. She pen- 
cilled me a few lines, as she sat in the theatre, giving me her ad- 
<iress; but in some way that I could never account for, I lost it. 
Clasped in my glove when I reached home, I had a scrap of blank 
paper ! I could not recall names nor locahties, as she had given 
them. Night after night I sought in the crowd, Eunice. She did 
not come ; she had, of course, thought me estranged —forgetful. I 
wrote, but received no reply. The last night of my engagement 
Eunice came, and sat where I could not fail to meet her glance : cold 
And ungenial it was. The lady whom I had seen with her before, 
accompanied her that night. Between the acts some one gave me 
the necessary information of the elder lady. 

I noted down the name and number of Madame Cardave^s resi- 
dence carefully. The best work of the night, I thought, even with 
the fresh honors I had acquired, was the clue obtained of Eunice. 
Miss Pinkington accompanied me to Madame Cardave’s on the fol- 
lowing week. I regretted to hear that the young lady who was 
Avith her at the theatre was not in the city. She had left a few hours 
previous and would not return. 

“ You called her Ernestine. I thought her name was Eunice ?” 

A significant look, couj)led with an appeal for silence, stopped fur- 
ther inquiiies from Miss Pinkington. Madam Cardave oftered to 
drive us to the lady's residence, some distance from the city. I ac- 
cepted the offer. As we jn-oceeded on our way she remarked: 

“ She has been staffing with me for some time, and only left me 
this morning.” 

I feared to ask questions, lest something in the life of Eunice 
might comiDromise her. The shifts and subterfuges which perhaps 
had become necessary; the world-knowledge, which, without the 
seeking, comes to the unfortunate, were better concealed from those 
who could not view them results with the forgiving eyes of affection. 
I occupied every moment of our time with other subjects, lest the 
conversation would winder toward the dreaded theme. For the 
first time in my life I wished Miss Pinkington far away. We reached 
a pretty Gothic, or rather a Swiss cottage. Shrouded in verdure, 
even the road which led to it, was densely shaded \Hth rows of pop- 


252 


BEKENICB. 


lars. A lawn, fresh and green, was at the side; a flower garden be- 
yond, in which we saw a lady attending to the plants. 

“ Eunice !” exclaimed 1, with a thrill of pleasure. 

“ I had a little surprise for you; I can not keep the secret longer," 
said madame. 

“ Is she married ?^’ I asked, with breathless hope that she was. 

“Yes, and to the best of men.” 

“ How rejoiced I am to hear of her good fortune,” said I, earn- 
estly. 

“ When was she married asked Miss Pinkington. 

“Yesterday. Her affianced had been absent for tw'o months. 
They were married immediately upon his return to Paris.’’ 

We had reached the gate. Eunice came tripping across the lawn 
to meet us. Miss Pinkington and I stood behind the vines, to insure 
her a surprise. After her greeting was over with Madame Cardave, 
I stepped forward and raised my veil. She started, screamed, went 
from one excess to another, laughing, crying, kissing me over and 
over, in an ecstasy of joy. I could never hope to reproduce it 
upon the stage. Nature is a ludicrous exaggeration of Art, instead 
of vice verm; or, in other words, truth is stranger than fiction. 

We entered the house, where everything w^as in the simple ele- 
gance pecuhar to the middle class. (Would it not be the first, if 
Nature could give a patent ? ) Eunice looked very happy, showing- 
me her house wonders, with a childish dehght. Here intruded a 
thought, not envy nor near it, but it ran in this way: 

“ With my voice and my advantages, which are ahvays brought 
forth to reconcile me to misfortune, I have no home, no love.’’ 

Ml'S. Cardave continued speaking of Ernestine. When she did so. 
Miss Pinkington looked at me w'ith a significant smile. I ventured 
to silence her surmises at length, by saying to her in a decided tone, 

“ It is a name which she was compelled, by circumstances over 
which she had no control, to assume. Ask nothing more, say nothing 
more about it.” • 

“We will take tea,” (decided Madame Cardave, in answer to solic- 
itations) “ to give Ernestine a chance to display her pretty presents^, 
her Sevres set and her silver.” 

Eunice denied the motive. She didn’t care so much for the china 
and the silver as wn might think; but Buth must get a peep at her 
husband. 

“ You will see him dfrectl}". Mdiy not stay still pleaded the. 
young wife. “ Oh, do, Buth; you would love him, I know, and you 
must do so for my sake.’’ 

“ Is he handsome ? He must be. You w ould love none other.’’ 

She laughed heartily, at the remembrance of her idle words, and 
offered instant refutation of them by saying: 


BERENICE. 


253 


We girls never know what we wdll do. My husband can be con- 
sidered nothing more than fine looking. Look ! look ! as he comes 
up the walk. Tell me how he impresses you. I want you to admird 
him, and to like him.” 

Nearer and nearer he came. I had a full view of his head as he 
lifted his hat, from habit or otherwise, to catch the evening breeze. 
Eunice bounded to meet him, down the path. After the kiss of wel- 
come, he passed his arm around her waist. They walked on to- 
gether. Nearer and nearer they came. Miss Pinkington was 
presented to him, but there was no need of it. Ernestine drew his 
attention to me, her “oldest and dearest and adored friend.” Our 
glances met. We gazed upon each other without power to move or 
speak. He was ghastly livid, and I suppose I was, for my heart was 
still, cold as if ’twere dead. I remember him to this day, as then, 
and alas ! doo well do I remember poor Eunice, as she glanced fr’om 
one to the other, in an agony of inquiry and suspense. ’Twas a des- 
iderate moment. It occurred to me I must act my part. I tried to 
do so. The happiness of a wife was a stake. To lose his love, to 
see it transferred to one who had held no link in the chain of cir- 
cumstance to secure it, except what my folly had given her, was the 
supremacy of torture. The thought of her flashed upon us both, as 
we stood near her in our silent but superhuman misery. The ques- 
tioning eyes, with the half terrified look, appealing for explanation, 
recalled us. I, the stronger now, was the first to speak. 

“ Your husband and I have met before, Eunice.” 

Her face brightened a little; she turned to him. He caught her 
hand, caressingly drew it to his lips, saying after me, as I had said, 

“ True, my wife, under cirsumstances which have brought results 
that neither could have foreseen.” 

Eunice knew that his words only formed out the enigma that min© 
had begun. The anxious look toned down into a serious and reflect- 
ive one. In a half whisper she replied: 

“ I thought you both looked as though you had met before.” 

“ Let us go home,” I suggested to my companions. 

Eunice no longer pressed us to stay. Her air and manner were 
abstracted. I said to my heart, in its misery, ‘ We will go home. 
1 must read over the journals of the season, and out of their ful- 
some praises try to press one drop of comfort for you, my fainting, 
suffering, sorely tried heart.” 

I parted wnth Eunice as aU women part with each other — with 
kisses, and fond words and promises of visits innumerable. Sha 
never even looked in my face as she promised. She spoke in a 
mechanical way, as if she were trying to fathom a mystery. Eric 
walked through the avenue of poplars, Eunice and I on either side. 
He bade me adieu just as he spofc to the others. A funeral train 


254 


BERENICE. 


could not be sadder than we all were. Miss Pinkington scanned the- 
whole history, or its leading features, in a second. Madame Car- 
dave was ignorant of what made the change in us, yet she had not 
a smile nor a word to relieve the oppressive stillness. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


PILGRIMS OF THE SEINE. 

St. Germain. 

Ma Chere I — xAh, me, amie ! when shall I meet you ! I have left 
Paris, as you w'ill see. (You were prepared for my transit by a let- 
ter relating misfortunes, the result of my folly.) A young English 
lady, a relative of that monster, Cardave, who came to France to 
receive climateric benefits, applied to Madame Cardave for a com- 
panion to travel with her, and at the same time perform the duties of 
correspondent and reader. The ‘ correspondence’ is merely a few 
lines, from week to week, telling her relatives in England of her 
wanderings and of her health. With tliis a very little reading. My 
office is almost a sinecure. “ Companionship ! ’ A word in direct 
opposition to our lives. Her husband, who worships her, is the ver- 
itable companion du voyage. I have named our party “Pilgrims of 
the Seine,’’ for the reason that when I am with this English couple, 
I cannot get Bulwer’s sweet prose from out of my mind. The day 
I entered her service she looked at me with tears in her eyes, 
saying : 

“ Your face and voice take me back to England. Sweet to me is 
my native tongue. I like the French ladies; they are very polite, 
very attentive. Yet all the while we are strange to each other. They 
are so to me, I know'.’’ 

Her phantom beauty shocked me when I first saw her. Yet it 
w'as, even in its shadow'y w'ay, the true English type — rose and lily. 
We were sailing yesterday. The breeze of the Seine was quite, 
strong. 

Too strong, too searching,’’ her husband decided. 

She w^as w^eaker than the day previous. He has ahvays a pretext 
with which he deceives himself, about her not being, from day to 
day, “ so w'ell.’’ Look at them with me, Ruth. Fancy that j^ou 
witness this trusting love, so far above w'hat I have seen or dreamed 
of. They sit upon the deck nowq she is folded in his arms. Her 
white face rests against his. The flush of health in him intensifies 
the pallor of disease in her. She makes an effort to be gay, as he 
speaks hopefully of the effects of this journey and of their return to 
old England, and of the hfe at the “ Copse,’’ wiiich must be their 


256 


BERENICE. 


home. She smiles, though her great blue eyes are dimmed with 
tears. I read her misgivings that, day by day, become certainties. 
The one terrible conviction possesses her; it seals her lips; it is the 
struggle of hope with despair. It seems as if death were already 
around us. Yet the golden curls, with the breezes stirring them, 
are so life-like ! In the poor eyes the far-off glance comes. Per- 
chance, spirits unseen by us, hold them in visions ! They try to 
lure her away from earth, while she is clasped in Frederick’s arms. 
He presses the dear head closer, until her eyes give up their gaze to 
hide their tears. 

I in the silence, as we float on the Seine (for the breeze dies away 
suddenly,) sit and pencil these lines to you. I hold my pencil list- 
lessly, stopping to think of Mr. Ethel, of how happy you are now in 
his love, and of how your voice must be attuned out of its wild, self- 
taught melody, and of the proud and high-born who listen in won- 
der; I think of God’s best gifts, given often to the lowly to place 
them above the great. Again I turn to Frederick and the djdng 
girl. Lillian still sleej^s, while his eyes are fixed, anxious, staring 
upon the white face lying upon his breast. By the look in them I 
half believe he is not deceived. I think of the secret that, perhaps, 
out of pity for each other, they never reveal. When the quiet comes 
us now, then it may be, both are thinking of what they can not 
speak — of the last hours. A voice startles me, saying: 

“ The English girl is failing fast; she will die afar from home.’’ 

The conclusion of a fellow-traveler, wdio sits with me on the deck, 
coiTesponds with mine. The hectic spot brightens, deepens, concen- 
trates while she sleeps, while the breezes play over the wan temples, 
while Frederick holds her to his Iieart. 

“ St. Germain !’’ 

At this point Lillian rallied. We rode in the forests and on the 
“ Great Terrace.’’ Left so much to myself and my thoughts, I am 
apt to listen to desultory conversations of my fellow-travelers. As 
far as I have seen there is little restraint or formMity observed here 
among travelers. The French peo2)le talk to strangers of their great 
deeds and their great men. “ La Belle France ” is an untiring, ever- 
renewing theme. To foreigners who know nothing of kings or king- 
doms but by hearsay, the subject is not a dull one, — not of King 
Francis, the flower of chivalry and knighthood, his wives and the 
ladies of the court. I waft you a w'hisper of the conversation ap- 
pertaining to the life at home of this “ great King,” “ the flower of 
chivaliy and knighthood:” 

“Was he a hero to Queen Ellinor and Queen Claude? The 
American knew of Francis more than his own countrymen 
knew of him.” 


BEEENICE. 


257 


“They were queens, monsieur,’’ was the repl^'. “Could they 
be greater ? Could ambition, or love, or desire attain more than 
this f ’ 

“I’d rather have the love of a plow-boy, than clasp the crown 
of the Lombards on my brow,” chimed in the portly wife of the 
American.” 

“Yes, and I should prefer being less honored by the world, and 
more by my husband,” said another lady of advanced age and 
uncertain nationality. 

“Liana de Breze was honored, you say, by the love of two 
kings ? Let’s hear the story ? It may be new to some of us. 
I’m sure it is to me.” 

The reply was decisive : “By King Francis and his son, Hen- 
ry yeeond, the lady was beloved. She was then handed down, 
from age to age, an heirloom of iniquity, of cool and determined 
criminality. The vile minx first making a man’s mother wretched 
and then his wile.” 

“In our country such infamy would not bo tolerated.” 

“But kings, madam, are not like commoners. And you know 
there was oftenest with royalty no love at home to make them 
better than they were. Ot course you know th*e story of Francis ? 
Ellinor was a Oage de amite between two sovereigns — captive and 
captor. A compact sealed at Madrid, against which Francis pro- 
tested, and to which he succumbed only from exigency. Ellinor 
was to Francis as Silicia was to Maria Theresa. She was com- 
l^elled, in policy, to give a flower of her queenly coronal and ho 
to receive Ellinor, the compromise his imperial captor offered.’’ 

Our guide would have shown us the trap door where the lovely 
and frail La Yalliere admitted her royal lover. A tiresome route 
and only a trap door at the end to reward one. I did not accom- 
pany the })arty. Keither did one who exclaimed from her out- 
raged sense of right : 

“Inirigue! Iniquity! Supreme and royal ! Let me not be- 
hold the haunts of kingly vice! I might judge without mercy 
those who have gone to a higher tribunal, a jiister Judge !” 

Of Louis Quatorze and La Belle Gabrielle, the story was like 
the rest. I remember its absurdities, even more than its immor- 
alities. Think of a lady-corpse lying in state. Her effigy of 
lead in dress of satin (white.) Truly, the ridiculous in Gabrielle’s 
funeral honors robs death of its Dead March. Punch, the violin- 
cella, and the gazing crowd, supplant, in my imaginings, the sol- 
emn hearse and waving plume. Her meals were blessed by the 
Almoner and placed before her, as she was served in life. (How 
beautiful it all was. How they loved Gabrielle.) For forty days 
the eyes, with no speculation in them, looked on the repast, the 


258 


BKEP^NIGPI 


wiue that she loved. How horribly materialistic ! A weird 
tableau is before my mind’s eye as the narrators draw it. I be- 
hold in queenly state fair Gabrielle, made up in white satin, upon 
a bed or bier, draped in crimson velvet, surrounded by- tapers ; 
her spirit being chanted even to the gates of heaven by eight 
priests. The edat and mdcrere of this love of a king ! A matronly 
lad}", decidedly French, with deei), searching eyes, caught uj) the 
royal ravelliugs of conversation in the Cloth of Gold, by saying 
what surprised us all : 

“I wonder if any one who joined just now with vigorous de- 
nunciation, in the hue and cry against Catharine Medici, ev^er 
thought of her mercifully, or in pity? The child- wife with the 
canker-worm of jealousy at her heart for fourteen years. Can 
we wonder that all the good was eaten out of that poor heart ? 
A queen, wearing besides the royal robes, woman’s holiest 
crown — motherhood. Ten children, four of them kings, she bore 
the miscreant who kept in her august presence a woman, in years, 
far her senior, and old in crime — his father’s cidimnt mistress. A 
systematic, daring, defiant wanton. Might not this grief, stifled 
by pride and by policy, have given the coloring to her after life, 
dried the well-8i)rings of w-omanly tenderness, made her the 
bShe-wolf of Frace A name that her cruelty fully w-arranted 
none can deny. But I i)lace before you, wives and mothers, the 
unfortunate Medici, with one of her kings pressed to her aching 
heart, weeping because she is a Queen, appearing in state beside 
a painted wanton, her husband’s light and love^ betraying no 
sign of suffering, but concentrating her vengeance to wreak it, 
unfortunately, upon the innocent as she could not reach the 
guilty. As the historian says, H^atharine Medici was suffering, 
silent, but not humbled nor chastened by her wrongs ; she was 
biding her time.’ 1 ask of the merciful, may we not pity even 
while we despise her. 

We met other pilgrims, zealots trying to reach a shrine a long 
way off. They were neither weary nor hungry, but ecstatic and 
etherial in their remarks as thoy spoke of reaching the “Hermit- 
age.” 

“What and where is that ?’’ asked I. 

“Dug in a solid rock, where, twice a year, pilgrimages are made 
with marvellous results. ’Tis only a hundred leagues from us.” 

One of them urged in earnestness : “If the sick lady would 
only make a pilgrimage ! ’ 

“Pilgrimage ! Ah, yes ! Many far worse than she recover,” 
said a devotee, and yet another spoke in conviction : 


BEBENICE. 


259 


“What a miracle you would witness! After it, she could walk 
without fatigue from lier to Paris.” 

But the sick lady, with the “Church of England Common 
Prayer’ in her hand, reading the Psalms, did not think she would 
be benelitted by a long and fatiguing journey to where the won- 
drous “scraps of martyrdom, studded with jewels,” were shrined 
away. Clift's and mountains with towers and ruins upon their 
summits, or set amid them on declivities, made the scenery in- 
comparable. 1 long to stay amid the vestiges of past geiiera- 
rions. Though' I confess that tales which I was compelled to 
listen to, of valor and chivalry, were drafts upon my credulity, 
which 1 did not always honor. “The Lady of Beauty !” They 
talked of her ; my heart thrilled at the term in spite of a natural 
prejudice against illicit amours. From the testimoii}" ot histo- 
rians 1 reverence Agues Sorel. With so much good in her nature, 
used in influence through a king over a nation, who could breathe 
aught against her ? Here lies this once true and w^arm heart be- 
neath a lofty and magniflcent mausoleum of black marble.” Can 
you think why it was not white ? Was not the soul purified by 
death ? Her errors palliated, nay, even justified by the times in 
which she lived ? The “ruined ChaiieF’ was the only response 
to my silent thoughts. Only for ])oor Lillian, whom at this point 
of our journey I could not lea ve^ 1 might have seen the stained 
wimlow where Agnes Sorel knelt to pray for Charles YU and 
for her own soul — the soul which was a part of him, the nobler 
part. 

“In this king’s life, and for him, were two good and high- 
minded women sacrificed, ’ said I, “Joan of Arc and Agnes Sorel. 
Joan loved her country. There was no taint of huniiin iiassion 
in her soul. Yes, true, Agnes died for her royal lover, Joan to 
prove how nobly a woman and a Christion could die, and to 
prove the cruel truth, that a craven heart was cased with a cow- 
ard’s care under a c.oat of mail.” 

“Charles could not have saved her even at the price of his 
kingdom,’’ said one weak voice in his defense. “She merited her 
doom. In league with the devil; wearing men's clothes; con- 
sorting with soldiers.’’ 

No one answered the devout pilgrim in her condemnation of 
poor Joan. 

In this midsummer sunset how divine the spell upon the earth. 
Within our view is a region of interminable forest; stratas ‘of 
verdure rise upon the slopes, one above the other. The dark wal- 
nut and the sturdy hickory, with mountain ash, mingling re- 
lieving the sombre grandeur with dashes of scarlet bloom. 


260 


BEKENICE. 


Mountains of verdure are around us that seem to touch and 
min^jle in with the clouds. Trees of forms and shades that I 
know not ot*. Green in the woods is a thousand colors, delicate 
shadings, which the sparkling light deepens and varies. The 
line of the valley is clearly defined, by dwellings with thatched 
roofs, grazing flocks and other signs of active life. Here we aro 
to sojourn for a whde. Lillian needs repose, and no prettier spot 
is there to seek it. We passed to day Arcadian groves; miles of 
meadowy lands, pastoral and quiet; herds of cattle grazing on 
the green and velvet soil. Flecking the dark green fields like 
snowflakes were St. Genevieve’s protegee. In these very regions 
she tended their progenitors in her youth, under the domination 
of her pastoral proclivities, before she became the patron saint 
of Paris. Not to be irreverent, ’tis to be hoi)ed she did not look 
as listless and uninformed as these beings of both sexes before us, 
stretched upon the sunny slopes. 

“The Forest of Komrey,’’ called out our guide. The haunts of 
iron men — of an iron age ! Polio, Wiliiam the Conqueror, the 
early Dukes of Normandy. The dark lines of trees seem a ram- 
part around some stronghold; the lighter, upward shooting 
branches, spears. The shifting clouds the smoke of battle. The 
thunder that threatened a coming storm, the trumpet tones of 
deadly conflicts. The restive elements admitted of no dreaming 
of the past, no speculation for the [)resent. They changed rap- 
idly as thought. Vapory shroudings came between our sight 
and the topmost range of mountains ; but far, far, back, far as 
the eye could penetrate the clouds, gleamed here and there a sil- 
ver sky-ground. Dashiugs of sunlight falling upon ])oiuts of the 
forest in concentrated rays made literally trees of fire! We 
looked in wonder while there came a soft flush on sky and forest, 
giving the most delicate tracings of the wondrous Artist amid 
the dark and grand and appalling of His creations. In a moment 
after, over the far off forest were set the storm clouds in an omin- 
ous ground-work, indicating a storm. Riding on rapidly we be- 
held a summer’s sunset. Calm and bright the topmost boughs 
of the tall trees, the deep hollows, even to the blighted, withered 
trunks, were, in the west, warm and crimson. The sun disap- 
peared; we saw nothing but the mournful hue of interminable 
forests, holding in their keeping secrets of bygone ages — myste- 
ries which even Time might ne’er reveal. When we reached our 
destination night had set in. I read again letters from home, 
just received. Frederick was not in the way to look at Lillian 
when she heard them. Lillian was dying; she knew it. The 
home letters reproached her. We had deceived her relatives as 
to her ^condition. They spoke hopefully (presuming upon our 


BEKENICE. 


261 


representations) of the sayings and doings of home; of the 
preparations that were being made for her return ; the merry- 
making, the many joys to come; songs she had sung had never 
been ventured upon since she left them. Lillian listened, toying 
the while in a nervous way with the slender chain at her white 
throat. At last tears came. Fearing Frederick’s return, by an ef* 
fort she grew calm again. Placing her hand in mine as a pledge 
of the promise I was to make, she requested me to write a letter 
to blot out the impression of her ever going home. She said again 
to me, “After pondering upon the matter, Ernestine, thinking of 
the home-folks as they gather together in this surprise of grief, 
I think you had better write immediately. Two letters must be 
written. Let one precede the other about a fortnight ; the first 
should alarm them, the second — ah. me! My God! that will be 
dreadtul ! Ernestine, my friend, tell it as you think best. Poor 
mother ! When she writes in reply Frederick will know. He 
must ! ^Tls time !J' 

We are at Rouen, and from this point our movements are retro- 
grade. Lillian is failing fast. I heard mass at the cathedral, but 
really I could not pray for observing the grandeur of the building. 
Some one says to describe this place would confuse eye and ear. 
I can only say of the structure, it is a grand work of minute parts 
that will not bear analysis. One would, by resolving the whole 
world into chaos, arrive at the same result as taking each separate 
arch and spire, nave and dome, of Notre Dame apart to find the 
triumph of art, or causes of its magnificence. The bas-reliefs, I 
have been informed, are the genealogical tree ef the House of 
David. The history of St. John is also represented by them. A 
story that receives credence is that the bell of this church gave 
warning to a king at his coronation, by cracking itself when he 
looked at it. He took no note of the warning, kept his crown, ran 
race to the guillotine. His subjects, or most of them, cried indig- 
nantly : 

“ Why did he not heed the bell of Notre Dame and give up his 
kingdom. It follows that we shall rightfully scoli* at his memory.” 

So it w^as that henceforth by his people insulting inscriptions were 
graven upon the medals of his reign. 

Even in the aisles of the cathedral at Rouen, with the rich and 
mellowed Hght falling through the stained windows, the paintings of 
the Madonna and saints beneath the gothic arches, in the wondrous 
intricacies of towers and spires, I cannot pray. Am I not cold, cal- 
lous ? What would dear, sister Barbara say ! Surely that I needed 
grace. 

» * * * ^ 


2G2 


BEllENICE. 


We are in the wine country now. The fruitful vineyards lay 
stretched before us far and near. The hillsides, the valleys and 
glens, all regal-robed in their purple and their pride. From the 
vine-gatherers we have a basket of grajres. Luscious clusters! We 
never see anything like them in our country. Lillian holds them in 
her transparent fingers. Tempting as they are, it is with these as it 
was with the cherries and the far-known, wondrous elixir, the lauded 
wine of the cote de or, which was to quicken the sluguish veins to 
make our Lillian live ! The leaf-basket, tastefully arranged by the 
gipsy-looking vintager, tempting as if Pomona herself had filled it, 
is put aside in the usual languid way. She never wanted anything, 
he said, trying to make the tone playful wdiich w^as hopelessly des- 
pondent. She answered, and tried to be cheerful, to satisfy him 
that she was no worse than usual. 

“ You never allow me to want anything, not even your presence. 
You are with me slee2')ing and waking; so kind, so faithful, sojiatient, 
with a tiresome, sick wife, my own dear husband !’’ 

Very true her 'svords, not a bit exaggerated. His lips quiver, but 
nothing is to be shown to her of the sorrow which he bears bravely. 
She said to me to-day, with tears in her great eyes: 

“ Ernestine, I hope God w'ill forgive me for writing letters to my 
mother, such as I did before the last one. ^Tw'as to make her hapj^y, 
and, indeed, I was not quite confident of the result; therefore, they 
were not entirely false. 'Now I know. It is all jfiain. I sliall never, 
never in this world see niy mother.’’ 

“ You are no worse than when we set out; only a little weaker; 
don’t be desjoondent.” 

“ I am far worse. A little, and a little Aveaker, means that death 
is near. Tlie refrain, which, when people are about to die they hear, 
is ever around me. There is no mistaking that. It comes to me in 
all places; in the rush of waters, the moaning of the winds, in the 
laugh, and song, and shout of the harvesters, in the Avarblings of 
the birds, in the rippling of the waters. Ail si)eak to me, all say to 
me, ‘ Lillian, you are dying.’ ^Tis terrible to me, Ernestine, temble 
to think of. 1 have so much to keej) me here. From the gladsome 
earth, into the long aisle of shadow's and darkness, I go ere many 
days. Worse than death is my dread of it. I am not w'ilHng to 
die, Ernestine. You cannot know how dreadful it is to leave one wo 
love. The light after the night is so far, so far, so far I” 

I answered fervently, in all faith. 

“ But so certain, so glorious. Y'ou meet again. AVe must meet 
after death.” 

“ I knew you would tell me that. ’Tis the Christian’s faith. But 
perchance he will live on until he is an old, old man, without me. 
How will the difference in our years harmonize ? Are we, beyond 


BERENICE. 


263 


our sentient life, all young ? Does immortality mean that God set 
His seal upon us, in the fulness and glory and summer of life ? ’’ 

“ Alas ! we know not. Our spiritual lives are mysteries. Glorious, 
grand they must be. I never thought of death, since I was a 
child.” 

“Nor I, till of late; but when the pulse beats slow, and the heart 
closes in spite of our efforts, against what made the world pleasant, 
we must think of death. When Frederick’s eyes meet mine inquir- 
ingly, I avert them. He would read my forebodings. I do him 
wrong to deceive him by my acquiescence, when he speaks of home, 
and'of his plans for our future; yet I have not courage to say, ‘ In 
that home, together, we will never live.’ ” 

She paused, overcome with emotion. Again she spoke : 

Will you tell Frederick the truth ? " It is the last and best 
service you can render me. We need not si)eak of it — Freder- 
ick and I. Ah, no, we could not ; but wo would be parting all 
the time. It will not be so dreadful as all at once.” 

If you desire it, I will tell him/^ I replied, sorrowfully. 

I knew that I dared not long defer my mission. It was a 
lovely eve, so ominously still, that there seemed to be a pause in 
nature. The air did not stir the leaves ; the sky, as the sun 
disappeared, was a burnished sheet of silver, painted with a 
wondrous exactness— not a cloud apparent upon its tlattened 
surface. A ground work of pure crystaline, immovable, as if 
Twas cast from chaos, to exist through ages. The royal streak of 
purple, the dash of crimson, threaded with strands of gold 
Frederick wishes that Lillian were not sleeping, to look with us, 
at the gorgeous heavens, in their sealed stillness. She, our 
dying one, was sleeping, a deep sleep. His eyes were resting 
mournfully upon her face, unusually haggard and i^ale. Tiie 
attitude so like death, with the transparent fingers locked in 
each other, was appalling. I knew by his glance, that he, at 
that moment, saw into the future. Yet I must keep my 
l)romise. A remark of his made the way for me. He spoke of 
what I was thinking of : 

‘‘ What sorrow in all man’s life can be like this — to see one we 
love passing away from us, and to know that we cannot save, 
and cannot die for them, or with them V 
“ You believe, then, that Lillian — ! 

I said no more. He replied, interrupting me : 

“ Lillian will die. Her physicians say there is not a possibility 
of her recovery. Ah, Ernestine, I have read, and we both know, 
without reading of it, that the soul departs not on its last jour- 
ney alone j that spirits of its kind attend it ; that neither in life 
nor death are we alone. Why, then, should tho.se who love bo 


204 


BERENICE* 


divided ! Why one wait on the farther shore of the mystic river 
the coming of the other? Why might not those united in earthly 
bonds, pass together to the unknown ? 1 only ask to die with 

her. Deatli ! When I liold Lillian in my arms, it stands by me. 
When I have told her of hopes that really did not exist, death 
was there.’’ 

His voice faltered. I could not control my emotion. At last 
I spoke, lowering my voice that she might not hear: 

“ Be consoled ; for the worst is over. She bade me say to you 
that she feared you were deceived as to her condition.” 

“ Poor Lillian ! Then she knows ? My God !’’ 

Lillian’s brow contracted ; she moaned a deep, sad moan. He 
sprang to her side as she awoke. She must have heard my last 
words and Frederick’s repl}’. I took note, that after thig, they 
never talked of England, nor the copse, nor the songs of* the 
thrushes and blackbirds, as heretofore.’’ 

Lillian grew worse after that day, but struggled to keep up, hoping 
to reach England to die. We were in the wine country and could 
not venture out of it. With no evidence of pain, without a word, 
without a sigh she passed away. The brightest morning that ever 
wakened the birds and dowsers and the silent earth shone on the 
dying face before us. Frederick saw the change during the night. 
He called me at daybreak. He was kneeling beside her when 1 en- 
tered the room. Was it to pray ? I judged that ’twas to be nearer 
to her, while life was in the poor, worn frame. I catch the last sigh. 
She would not allow us to change her from the low cam-bed, wEich 
she liked, because she could be readily moved. She must be placed 
always to see alternately the rising and the setting of the sun. She 
did not appear to notice me as I stood by the bed. Her hand rested 
on his head in the caressing way she often placed it. As I looked 
through my tears it relaxed its hold, and slipped dowm nervelessly 
upon his shoulder. Lillian’s beautiful eyes closed. I thought I saw 
a tear upon the lashes. He looked in her face and then in mine w'ith 
a wild, questioning glance. The worst suspense that fate gives to 
mortal was in that expression. Her eyes opened again as if they an- 
swered him. He lifted her gently in his arms until her face touched 
his. She must have felt the warm, strong throbbing of his heart. 
If she were conscious to the last, the contrast of health and life to 
death and annihilation, may have had its bitterness. This life of 
his. Her’s severed from it, yet chnging even to the verge of the 
“ dark isle of shadows,” striving to wrest her soul from its Creator. 

* * He He * * HeHe* 

Frederick has gone back to England, a pitiable wreck. He ac- 
companied me to Paris, simply because he hated to part with me. 


BERENICE. 


265 


“ You seem to. me a link of Lillian’s life, especially of her last mo- 
ments,’’ said he, as he pressed my hand in Madame Cardave’s parlor, 
and bade me a sad adieu. 

Again I had been sorely puzzled to know what to do with myself. 
In my perj^lexity Madame Cardave wrote a warm and urgent letter 
prevailing upon me to return to Paris, which invitation 1 gladly 
accepted. She met me affectionately — a rival no longer. She had, 
doubtless, discovered long since that her rivals were “ legion.” AVith 
the serenest expression she assured me that she was not, .as hereto- 
fore, miserable. She had not opposed his appeal for a separation, 
nor offered a defense. She left her viiidic.ation to him and to her 
Crod. 

“ 1 accepted my fate cpiietly,” said she, “ when I could not avoid 
it. Had he lost the suit it would not have made me more his wife 
than I am now.” 

Certainly Madame Cardave was in a healthier state of mind than 
when I left her. The harassed look and desperate exjjression of 
her eyes could no longer be traced. In its stead w^as a sad quiet. 
“ The resignation that comes through praj'ers,” she said, and in the 
same breath asked me whether I had heard from my “friend.” 

I replied: 

“ It would scarcely have been possible in months of a wandering 
life to hear of him, had he even desired that I should; I judge, how- 
ever, that he did not.’’ 

“ I have news for 3'ou from him.” 

“ You have !” exclaimed I, starting, frightened and pale, for which 
I was highly indignant at myself, there not being the slightest cause 
for it. 

“ His interest in you had not passed away by your leaving Paris, 
by any iiieans,” she asserted, with an air of triumph. 

“ No ! Why do you think so ?” asked I, nervously. 

“ He has written to me three times since you left the city, to ascer- 
tain at what point 3^011 are likely to be. Of course I could not give 
liim ail}’ information, as 3^011 rareh^ wi'ote to me, and 3^our sta3' at 
each place was precarious.” 

“ Depending entirely on Lillian’s health.’’ 

“ He is here and knows that 3^ou were to return. The man is in 
love with 3"ou, Ernestine. There can be no doubt of it. I saw it 
before you left Paris.” 

Far-seeing Madam Cai'dave ! I thought, while I replied : 

“ I can’t think so. He was alwa3"S quite at ease in my presence. 
He never looked at me as though he had any embarrassing commu- 
nication to make. You are deceived. He is a philanthropist, and 
would act the Fidus Achates to all. His attention to me meant 
nothing.’’ 

17 


BERENICE. 


•iGG 

“ Listen ! AVeigli niy words. He will, before a week, ask you to 
be bis wife. Acee^jt liim, promptly, too, for I know you like him.” 

“ Promptly ! eagerly ! Was ever such a thing heard of *?‘ Accord- 
ing to usage, a lady should have time to consider a iiroj^osition, and 
to refuse once, at least.” 

“But if she knew she Avas to be asked but once? A man of 
stamina Avould not jdace it in a lady’s poAver to refuse him tAvice. ” 

“ We are educated, I believe, to think it uiiAVomanly to be precipi- 
tate or over truthful, in such matters. Our educators are at faidt, 
not Ave. • Custom is an imperative mistress.’’ 

“ There should be a reform, no ajApearing to consider Avhat has 
already been considered. Why keejA tlie poor fish hanging on fhe 
hook in torture ? Some men are timid. They nearly die Avith shame 
in asking the important (question. How -wicked to compel them the 
humiliation twuce !” 

My spirits were high. I suggested to my friend that a blank form 
Avith pencil attached, for the lady to fill out negative^, if she thought 
best, but at all events, decidedly, and truthfully, AA'ould be a grand 
plan. 

“ A’ou are fully prepared for this momentous question from the 
person I alluded to. Don’t jest about it.’’ 

“No, Madam Cardave; he has neA^er given me cause to do so, nor 
do I believe that I Avould avail myself of the offer. I liave no Avisb 
to settle in life. I am young enough to Avait a feAV years.” 

A shade of disappointment came over her face. She may have 
thought of her graceless husband, and dreaded the event of our 
meeting. If she did, she Avu*onged me. 

“ We Avere scarcely talking of probabilities,” said I, pursuing a 
pleasant subject. “ It Av^ould be uiiAvise in me to listen to the suj)- 
230sition of his loving me, and hope uj^on it; for, truthfully, I like 
the man. I am candid, m adam, but 1 am cautious, too. I might, 
by credulity, be made to rejAent. I Avould avoid lidicule and con- 
tenijA.” 

“ I must jdead for another. You Avill soon see him.’’ 

Accordingly, the second day after my return lie came. I w’as, on 
account of Madam Cardave’s conversation, agitated; nothing else in 
the A\'orld. You knoAV by my letters to you, hoAv perfectly at ease 
Ave used to lie together. Well, I could scarcely sjieak at first. He 
noticed it. Questioning me about my journey' jilaced me in a better 
talking trim. Ujion the subject of poor Lilhan, her love and death, 
I greAV eloquent — or, rather, diffuse (as if I could be eloquent). But 
withal he Avas entertained. He kept his eyes fixed upon my face. 
Mine fell before his glance. There Avas more than hstening in it. I 
knoAv that much, though I am not Avise. AVhen T sjioke of Frederick 


BERENICE. 


2(;7 

and Lillian, my tears moved him, and I said, just as the thought 
came: 

“ How sad ! They must be i)arted — they who loved — while others, 
who were a trouble to each other, were obliged to live on, and 
remain together, merely to please the world. 

Then a long story he told me, a sad one it surely was. Mitigated, 
softened and philosophized down to a sad, sweet memory df a grief 
that had died out entirely, leaving him free. It is his secret, other- 
wse I would tell you, and let you judge him for me. But no; it is 
too late. I have said yes, and that very day, too. I write as he 
spoke to me. I am at liberty to tell my 'own affairs. 

‘‘ Ernestine, will you be my wife V 

How straightforv.’'ard ! just like him. I did not demur. I could 
not trihe witli him. He stooped, I believe, to kiss my brow. I im- 
pulsively, foolishly, put up my lips. He thanked me with his sweet 
smile. 1 thought it a cold kiss; I wondered if it came from the 
deeper depths, away down in the caves of love. I suppose, as he 
came from a cold country, he brings the icy ‘Chill in his kisses. I 
acknowledged my love for him, in a very unmaidenlj’ way, I fear. 
Let me tell you how it was, and also of my deej) humiliation. 
Placing my liand in his, I begged him to forgive me for the cheat I 
had practiced in telling liim my name was Ernestine Rossmere. 

“ I kneAV your name long ago, ever since I first saw you. You 
are forgiven, Eunice, for trying to deceive, when deceit Avas com- 
pulsory. Many of us are guilty of the sin.’^ 

“ You knoAv my name ? Ah ! you saw my handkerchief in the 
garden. Y^ou picked it up for me three times that eA^ening. Do not 
despise nie for tlie falsehood. I could do no better, in my peculiar 
position.’' 

“ The sequel proves that, knoAving the deception, I believe you to 
be a pure and noble Avoman.” 

“ Tell me truh’. avIia’ do a'ou ask such a vagrant jis I to l)e A'our 
wife ? ” - • . • 

“ Because I think you love me.” 

‘‘ You think I love you. Is that all V 

My heart misgave me. I waited eagerly for his reply ,Avhich was: 

“ No, Eunice; this is not all. I said it to make you reproach me. 
Your eyes have an indescribably eloquent knack of doing so. Let 
me hear your A oice on the subject. You have not said you love 
me.” 

“ On my honor, I do. Not a semblance of love have I knoAvn, till 
you came to create it. " 






/ 


/ 


t 


« 



# 


/ 




I 






BOOK THIRD. 


— :o: — 

CHAPTER I. 


I would tluit this woman’s eyes 
Had less of the light that in them lies, 

That they were less darkly blue— 

Less tenderly true— 

Had less of the power to thrill me through. 

I would that her lips 

Were not more rod than her linger tips I 

— riKE. 

EXTRACTS FROM RUTk 8 JOURNAL. 

'• WHEN VIRTUE PARLEYS IT IS NEAR SURRENDER^ IN WHICH THE ANOELS ARE 

BLAMED WHEN THEY ARE FAR AWAY. ' 

The hist letter from Eunice reached me in Paris the day after the 
occurrence of events which would haunt me to my death. My soul 
was rebellious; my o-rief passionate, wild, terrible. ,Had Berenice 
been his wife I could far better have endured the blow. Another, a 
fairer and a purer, claimed him. One whom he never would have 
thought of a second time but for my folly. I wept ! I prayed ! I 
thought my soul Avould pass away to its Creator, in one long, prayer- 
ful moan ! Then in a changed mood, a wicked frenzy, I exulted 
over the last letter open before me. It told of doubt. I was con- 
soled. But again my grief was keen. I recollected them as they 
walked in the shade of the poplars together. How they had seemed 
to me to have been born for each other. Her dark hair and eyes, 
contrasting with his Saxon features so effectively. I tortured my- 
self with triffes. But at times there swept over me of sorrows the 
sujircmest one. That dual life of theirs! Living, dying together ! 

After I had wasted sighS, tears and regrets for what neither 
tears nor sighs nor aught could change, slowly ' came the re- 
alization of my folly. In considering my nature I had found 
(too late to save me) a mental somnambulism which held me 
irresolute in actioiii Avrapping my senses in its spell. Its in- 


270 


BERENICr. 


flux was ever during the most critical moments of life. Mo- 
ments, when to all appearances, my fate, for good or evil, joy or woe 
was in m}^ own keeping. The wiser second thought was j^revented 
by this torpor, this blindness, this fatal want, Avhich chilled my blood 
and turned my heart to stone, chaining my will, holding me irreso- 
lute until the moment of my salvation liad gone by. Then 1 could 
but stand upon the desolate shore, beckoning them back as they 
dashed on, far from my sight, swej^t away in the current of Time 
and Fate. My loves, my joys, my heart-treasures, never to return. 

1 promised myself when I began this record to keep it faithfully, 
that I might read of my sins and atone for them, in tears and 
]>rayers, to the end of my existence. Once in my life, in a moment 
when my heart was sorely tried, passion triumphed over reason and 
will. The is most likely to occur (my consoler sa^’s) after suc- 

cessful struggling Avith temptations. Self-reliant after victory, Avt* 
belie\’e ourselves invulnerable ! So we might be Avith the knoAvn 
and bahied and after-thwarted tempations. But, alas ! for our se- 
curity, some iieAV apple of Eden is ever blooming Avithin our reach, 
of AAEichthe tempter AAdiispers, “Eat thereof; you are only human. 
What do you gain by endeavoring to be more ? ’ When Ave meas- 
ure our earth gains, expecting to find in them a reAvard for f)ur deed, 
hoAvever noble they may be, Ave are sure to be disappointed. 

I wish I could blot that day out of my life. I write of it, not dar- 
ing to look to heaven. 

“ I left your j^i’csence at Mount Marah, the first time,^' said he, 
“becaii’se I knew you AAm*e too fair, too good, too talented, for om* 
poor and old as I. I could not resist the feeling Avhich ])ronipted 
me to Avin you, therefore I returned to Mount Marah. I thought 
you were lonely. I beheved you found little pleasure in the world, 
AAEenyou, for a brief season, had^been induced to enter it.” 

“I hated the false world! I loA^ed you ! Oh, Eric Ethel! I have 
proved it! You did not; you married.’^ 

“ ^Tis Avell that you remind me of my fatal mistake. Triu‘, it is as 
you say; I am married — ” 

Unpityingly to myself, as to him, I A\ ont on, goaded by disappoint- 
ment and jealousy: 

“ Why did you not prefer to Aved your old love, Avith Avhom I 
found 3^011 in secret interview at the Mount ?” 

“ Ask me AA^hy I left the house in despair Avhen I heard from Zillah 
that A'ou Avere to marry Dr. WA’att. Ask AA^hy I sought the theatre' 
that night to look upon you, even AA^hen I kncAV a'ou never could be 
mine. Ask why I left the city' huriiedly, feaiiiig that before I could 
get aAvaA' you Avould l)e Dr. AYA'att’s Avife. 1 loved 3 ’o\i from the 
time I first met a'ou up to this hour. I will still love you. I alloAved 


BERENICE. 


271 


a passing pity to be my ruin; and not only mine, lor Eunice will 
soon discover my feelings towards her — ” 

“She need not. It is always the end of unpropitious and forbid- 
den love to die out — a wise provision of the All Wise. A"oii sin in 
being here, I, in listening to you. What have you to tell me V What 
that will not be a wong to your wife ? If anything, for honor’s 
sake say it, and begone from me forever.'’ 

“You allude to my bondage; you bid me begone. If you had 
(‘ver truly loved me you could not — ’’ 

“ Oh, Ood ! Loved you ? To convince you I must make protes- 
tations. Wh}', man, do you forget ? Your wife is my best friend. 
Had you l^een truthful as she, your fate and hers would not have 
been cast together. Eunice does not know who 3^011 are.” 

“ With the kindest of motives, to save her from humiliation, I con- 
c.eaied ni}' name. This sorrow had never been but for vour sus- 
picions. Y^ou would not trust me. You sent me fi’om 3^)11 when 
3’ou knew — 3 011 must have known — I worshipped 3'our veiy^ shadow. 
A fortune hunter you thought me. The ravings of a mad woman 
made m3' protestations, aU evidences of 1113' truth, nothing. I went 
into the world a Avretched, lonelv man. You know I never w'as one 
that sought companionship in the ga3' scenes of life. After I met 
Eunice still I returned to 3'ou, thinking 3*011 might have regretted 
that vou had wronged me. The first news that greeted me, 3*011 
were to be another’s. ^Meeting vou afterwards, at Mount Ylarah, I 
entreated you to listen to m3' explanations. You Avould not. You 
were scornful, bitter, reproachful. Eunice loved me. In a moment 
of follv I acted the vilest lie. I know how low I have fallen in 3'our 
(*3*e3. Y’^et, you ma3* reproach 3*ourself in a great degree for it all. 
You should have charity* for a man who, no longer ' young, disap- 
pointed, world-weary, takes the love pi'offered him, even though he 
has none to give in return. Search your soul; find y'ourself blame- 
less before 3*011 condemn me.” 

“ AVhat I have done is too plain. I was a jealous, suspicious fool. 
I loved vou too Avell. I fear I will love 3*011 till 1 die.” 

J know not how* it ivas. I can not bring back the movement; but 
after 1113* vehement protestations I w*as folded in his anus, w*eeping 
away* all the wild and suiipressed giief of my* soul upon his breast. 
I felt the (jiiick throblhng of the heart I had Avronged. 

The kiss of Eunice’s husband was upon my* lips. The tempter 
reasoned : 

“ He is not hers since he loves y^oii.” 

Y^et I said, calmly*, tirmly*, Avithout a tremor of voice : 

“ We must meet no more. We Avill forget. We must forget. A^’e 
wrong Eunice by cherishing one thought of our love. There w*ill 
be Lethe’s stream for us. We Avill seek it. I have my* profession. 


272 


BERENICE. 


In pursuing it steadily my dream will be realized. Come to Rutli 
in marble. When I am dead there will be no sin in loving me.” 

“Marble! Do not mock me. You are mine in life; mine in the 
warm Hush of your beautiful womanhood; mine with the deep glow- 
ing love of your passionate soul !” 

“ I am not yours, Eric — not on earth. In Heaven, *tis said, the 
soul meets its mate, from whom it has in its earthly wanderings 
strayed. The longest life is but a S2)an. Think of its luiefness with 
ho2:>e. (lo. I ask in mercy, go, for in your strength lies our fate.’’ 

“Say that I may return. Say that 1 ma}* look uj)on you again; 
that I may hear your voice in sweet consoling, niy loved one ! Oh, 
Ruth, } ou are not entirely lost to me ! ’’ 

“ Ah, tem2)ter ! Wicked thoughts joossess me. I emw your wife. 
When you are sick or sad she is by your side to soothe you. If you 
have a headache her soft, white hand on your forehead soothes the 
2){iin. She is with you always. I am u2:)on the stage, waiting for 
apjdause, sick at heart, looking, longing for one face in the crowd 
around me, one voice to say, in the quiet hours of home life, ‘ My 
own Ruth.’ Eunice will be happy. Y'ou are not blind to her loveli- 
ness. You will S2:)eak softly, lovingly; it is your way. Yes, Eric, she 
must, when you forget me, be what she should be — your loving and 
beloved one.’’ 

“ She is wTetched; our meeting has made her so. I can not act a 
j^art. I did think, until I saw you, that my heart was, to a certaiii 
extent, involved in the union. You know we make mistakes in mar- 
riage oftener than in any other act of life. It is hard to discriminate 
in love. Grosser })assions resemble it for awhile. Sometimes again 
jhty, with its 2)rotecting tenderness, deceives us. I was deceived in 
my feelings for Eunice. I thought you had chau^-ed. I exj^ected 
to meet you no more unless as Dr. Wyatt’s wife. I married, trying 
to cultivate feelings which must sin-ing spontaneously to be deej)- 
rooted and 2)erfect. No man can reason himself into the degree of 
love e.ssential to conmd^ial hapi^iness. I know this too late. When 
she a2)2)eared before me a2:)pealiiig to my protection, my sympathies 
Avere awakened, she was so luiin, so young- ” 

“ And so beautiful?” 

“ Yes, .she is beautiful. I can not deny that she is. I was about 
to say to you that from the first hour i^assed in her society I knew 
Avho she Avas; your descrij^tion Avas so true to life. I saAv at once 
the cause of her anxiety to remain unknoAvn. It AA’as from the fear 
of her Avicked uncle as well as from the shame of having relationship 
with him. I AA'as more than Avilling to blot out pages of my oavii 
life, for the memory of it Avai Ihtter enough. More than this, I had 
been engaged in a secret service, and Avas knoAvn by feAv in Paris 
bv niA' own name.'’ 


BERENfCE. 


278 

“ As Eunice and I were thrown often together, I felt a very deep 
interest in her. Unprotected and poor, I pitied her. 1 reasoned 
myself into the thought of making her my wife. I thought of telling 
her how Kuth, her friend, had left me a wreck upon the world; but 
upon second thought I deferred the revelation until we were in our 
quiet home. Then I would make it a story for the Winter evenings. 
The home life I had pictured and the hour, silent and opportune for 
mutual acknowledgment, never came to us. In its stead was our 
meeting. W^hat a revelation that was to both !’’ 

“ It was, indeed; and yet I knew I had loved for the last time. 
Time will wear away from your mind every thought of me. Eunice 
loves you. Your heart must yield to her claims. It will. You will 
wonder in time to come why you ever thought of sombre, sad- 
hearted Kuth.” 

Tears filled my eyes at the thought of his quite forgetting me. 
Still I went on talking of what was to be. 

“ Oh, yes, Eric, you will yet learn to love Eunice,” said I, while I 
<‘lasped my hands despairingly at the thought. 

“ Never!’’ he replied, in earnest voice. “I can only love you. In 
my soul \o\i are sealed, silent, sacred. Mine forever.” 

“ You dare not think of me in love. You are bound to her.’’ 

“Bound! Wdiat is marriage — without love to hallow it — but the 
blackest iniquity V’’ 

, “ It is a sacrament; at least I have been taught to believe it so.’’ 

“ A civil contract, which may be dissolved; a chain which may be 
severed when it drags too heavily. I will free Eunice, in justice to 
her. I will be free to claim the woman I worship, even though she 
made me a vacillating fool, a perjurer, a disgrace to manhood. To 
her I appeal to save me from living out to death a lie.’’ 

“ You u})braid me. You are ungenerous and unjust, when you 
read my soul and know its remorse.” 

“ Why should I not blame you V You are free, while you have 
doomed me to bondage in a life witli a pretty doll. You bid me be 
satisfied with the hollow, soulless thing.” 

“ A doll ! Oh, shame ! Y^ou will find out her true nature when 
it is too late. Have at least some i)ity for your unfortunate victim.” 

“ Pity ! — the rock upon whicli I was dashed to pieces. I never 
more than pitied her; siu'ely let what will come I will ne’er do less.” 

“ (to from me. Y^ou are cruel. Y"ou will make me hate you.’’ 

“ I will do your bidding. Hate me. Think you that you may not 
live to regret your words V” 

“ Regret ! Speak no more of what this parting costs — the agony, 
the despair. Y^ou and I know too well. Our future we will trust to 
the great and good Ood.’’ 

Tliese were our last words. He turned suddenly away, fearing 


274 


BERENICE. 


])erliapH the firmness of liis sudden resolve to leave our fates with 
Heaven. I heard the eclio of his retreating- footsteps. 

In the stillness following- I thought of jMount Marah in its mid- 
night glory, when the silver day succeeded the golden sunset; when 
we walked in aisles of sjiangled moondrifts that (*ame through the 
leaves in shimmering, waving light; or we stood out in the open 
flush of silver sheen, or sat by the fountain. Then our love was holy. 
I had this night listened to his vows; I had rested *my head upon his 
breast, drank his kisses in draughts of bliss. I had, indeed, fallen. 
< )ne awaited me who, never loving, had never l)een tired. I must 
explain to her my absence. She was ailing, and for hours I had not 
been near her. I must confess to her how the missing time was 
spent. The solitary stroke, one, hung u})on the stilhiess in a long, 
warning echo. I feared to look about me; I was so guilty, I feared 
my shadow. Miss Pinkington was, as I anticipated, petulant and 
impatient at my neglect. 

“I have had fearful dreams,” said she; “all crowded into a short 
time, too, they must have been, as I did not sleep for liours after 
you went. What kept you away so long ? I was not able to pre- 
j-jare mv medicine, and waited for you.” 

‘•Mr. Ethel paid me a long visit.” 

“ The husband of another ! The man who loved you ! You ac- 
knowledge you allowed him to remain with you for hours. I could 
not act in this manner; yet I thought you Avere better than I.” 

“ I feel the criminality of my actions. We have parted this night 
in the full sense of the Avord.'’ 

She raised her head from the pilloAv to reply: 

“ May Heaven strengthen your resolve ! It Avas Avicked of you to 
meet him ; but it is done. You say it is the last, i Avanted you very 
niucli. I must tell you of a strange narcotical delusion, Avhich has 
kift mv nei-A'es entirely unstrung. Notice how Cvold and tremulous 
I am.’’ 

“ I obserA e I neglected you. You have missed, by my absence, 
three doses of the sedatWe.” 

“ I am glad to knoAV it, because it accounts for the vag.aries of my 
foolish brain. Nothing there to keep up its ecpiilibrium.” 

“What Avere their nature? The dreams or delusions, I meani” 

“ The door — that door —opened softly, and here, under the aaTii- 
doAv, no one could notice me upon the lounge. It is quite certain 
they did not, in my dream. A lady came in, dressed in mourning, 
— gay, becoming mourning, of the kind that h{is not a tear in it; 
furbeloAvs and black ornaments, that sparkled like serpents’ eyes. 
The light Avas loAvered, but I saw all this plainly. She came to the 
table beside me, and took uji every article on it, examining each de- 
liberately, as if she Avere in no hurry to get aAvay. Even the note 


BERENICE. 


'21 T) 

you placed uiidev the l)Ook she read. She must liave known it was 
tliere. She threw hac'k the curtains of your hed, and even looked 
under the pillow. She stood before your mirror, and actually turned 
up the jxas. At the «lare and at the yiew of the face I started with 
a very sli^dit moyement. Slight as it was she saw me. We recog- 
nized each other. ‘ j\[rs. Moore ! Why are you here?’ I demanded, 
sharply. It was jNTrs. Moore. Nothing daunted, she replied in a 
tone of surprise: ‘ iSIiss Pinkington ! Bless me, I must hare mis- 
taken the room ! ]\rine is the exact model of this. Let me see; 
two beds, a lounge — the same — precisely the same. Excuse me for 
my intrusion. I will try to tind my (quarters. Good night.’ She 
left me as she came, with a soft, stealthy step. She looked the same 
as the day she came to our house, only her face was yery pale- 
white — a chalky whiteness, and her eyes so black and glaring. The 
soft look that deceived eyery one was gone out of them. Her voice 
—I’d know it in a thousand voices. So complete was my hallucina- 
tion that I rang for the servant, one who could, perhaps, give mo 
some information of this lady in mourning, wln^ mistook her room. 
‘ The hotel was tilled with ladies,’ she replied, ‘ who would, unless 
they referred to the number, be likely to lose the way, as the rooms 
were duplicates of each other.’ TVo ladies had passed her on the 
stairway after dark. One was in Idack. Ah, she remembered, she 
was an ‘ (‘legant’ lady, not so very young; while the otlier was young 
and slight in figure. You can’t believe how })ositiye 1 am of having 
seen this person in the room, and talking with her is ecpially clear, 
yet my brain from the fever has l)een in an imlescribable unrest. 
Wliat think you of it, Ruth V’’ 

^ Berenice has been in this room as sure as there is a just Heaven. 
She has' read Eric Etliel’s note. The younger lady was his wife. 1 
see it all jdain. I am lost ! JOiuiice is lost ! Eric is lost ! He will 
(*urse me as his destroyer, for after all she is his wife !’’ 

“ This night you forgot your God, your own honor and the claims 
of Eunice." 

“Judge me not, you wlio never were tempted. Pleasure not my 
sin, mete not out my i)unishment until you love as I love this man." 

“ Love I’’ answered the old maid with the ])ink cheeks and silver 
<*urls, in a dreary way, with a bitter ring in her voice that made me 
look earnestly and empiiringly at her to read the better her placid 
nature. Was there not a sad, old, faded, turned-back leaf in the 
volume of the heart's record ? 

I could not sleep until near the breaking of day. About ten 
o’clock, haggard, ])ale, with a face that had grown sharp and rigid, 
Eunice stood by. my bed. My troubled dream was still going on in 
my clouded mind. A thousand angels with drooped wings and 
IVdded liands, as if they had nothing more to do, with downcast eyes. 


• 27(1 


BERENIOF. 


inarclied over a steep declivity farther and farther from me. A back- 
wai'd glance was all I could obtain of them, as farther and farther 
they went, until they faded from my sight. I Jiwoke. Eunice was 
looking sorrowfully in my face; beside us was the JiUe dc (-hamhrc: 
who had admitted her. 

“ You came to upbraid me, Eunice,’’ said I. “ Do not speak a 
Avord. I had rather bare iny heart to you. In that draAver is a dag- 
ger. I have used it often, feigning A\'hat you and I now feel. Take 
it, and end my sorroAvs and my shame.” 

“ No, Ruth, no. You and Eric Ethel may be married Avhen I am 
gone. He said so. I, a brile, heaikl this; a happy looking bride, am 
i not ? AA’ho after marriage learned her husband’s name — learned it 
from another.” 

“ From AA'honi did you learn it ?” 

A stranger — a lady— called at my house asking for Mrs. Ethel. 
I overheard her. The name, so A'ividly associated Avith you, struck 
me. Becoming interested, I Avent to the door, begged the lady to 
come in and be seated. Questioning her as to AA’hether she knew of 
.any one in the vicinity bearing the name of Eth(*l, she replied, watli 
.singular signilicance: 

“ You are Mrs. Ethel.’’ 

“ My name is not Ethel,’’ said I. “ You are deceived, madam.” 

“ You are the Avife of Eric Ethel — Ruth AYard’s lover, he Avhom 
she deluded from one avIio loved him better than she could love. 
She will again bring misery; she Avill t.ake him from you.’’ 

‘T did not doubt the truth of her .story; your confusion at meet- 
ing him Avas positive confirmation. Y^et J could not believe I Avould 
witness what I have Avitnessed. She persuaded me to folio av her, 
.and see. But then I Avas not happy, not after you Avere at our 
house. I knew there Avas some great troulfie in store for me. It 
rests Avitb him for not telling me liis name. Think you I Avould have 
married Eric Ethel ? or any one, AAdiom you loved? Not if the 
choice were death, or the fairest life that ever Avoman lived, Avould I 
have given you such grief.” 

My cheek crimsoned. I could not meet those gre.at black eyes, 
that looked only sorroAv and reproach, AAdien I merited venge.ance. 
She continued, Avhile the tears filled her eyes: 

“ He married me from pity ! He kneAv I loved him. Foohsh 
Yladam Cf^’dave, for her own reasons, to further her oavii projects, 
told him so. And to be sure, Avhat he said is true. I am unlike 
you. I feel my inferiority, deeply.” 

His Avords to me ! She had heard them. By the plans of Bere- 
nice, the bribings of servants, and other strategies that she under- 
stood too AA^ell, she must leave heard all; perhaps she had seen the 


BERENICE. 277 

parting embrace, the longy clinging kisses, the agony of grief. Try- 
ing to palliate my sin, I said : 

“ My good angel had forsaken me when I allowed myself to listen 
to his explanations.” 

She replied scornfnll}^: 

“ Oh, yes ! Blame your want of honor upon the angels ! I never 
think of them now, nor ask anything of them; and I would have 
scorned parley with your husband if I had loved him, until to look 
at him were life, bhss supreme and eternal.’^ 

“ Unless you were tempted, you could not say with surety what 
you would do. I had as high a scorn of any dishonorable act as 
you.” 

“ I only came here, Ruth, to tell you that I did not know Eric 
Ethel. I will go — I have done. I am wretched, lost, ruined ! I 
will not live another hour with your lover.’’ 

“ Calm yourself, Eunice. He will never see me again. He will 
forget me. • He is a finely tempered man for adversity. He takes 
his portion of the evils of life and goes quietly on, until time relieves 
him. Philosopher as he is, time, with your exceeding loveliness, 
Avill make Ruth Ward but an old and tiresome memory.’’ 

“No such comfortings, if you please, Ruth. I would rather not 
be mocked by you.- The .man that loved you for years, without 
being tempted in scenes where an anchonte might be, will not now 
when he knows you love him so entirelj" that you will allow the en- 
trance of no object in your heart but the dreary shadow whose sub- 
stance is lost to you, will never change. Although he is bound to an- 
other by ties which he abhors, he will not forget you. I am a doll ! Ah, 
good Virgin ! Blessed Christ ! Guide me — save me ! How he has mis- 
understood my nature ! Yet oiu* lives will lie wide apart. He will 
never discover his mistake. I will never let him look into my soul- 
out of mejj^y I w^ill not, for it Avould give him many a grief that he - 
need not have. He has enough, in being married to me. Think of 
it ! I have lived to be the bane of a man’s life — and that man one 
whom I looked uj^on as the best and noblest. I am the impassable 
bariier between' the husband of my soul, and the friend of my 
childhood, whom I have kept faithfully in my memory and my love, 
ever since I first knew her. Ruth, I am a sadder woman than you. 
There remains for you the knowledge of his adoration; the assur- 
ances that he gave you last night. To me the cold lassitude, the 
half-loathing embrace, the mocking kiss, the abstracted look and 
manner all would tell too plain, aye, as if he said it, ‘ Go away, you 
doll-woman ! Give me my soul’s idol, my brilliant bird of Paradise, 
my life blood, my Ruth ! Let me die at her feet, rather than live 
with you ! ’ I submit to this I Think you that I am so contempt- 
ible ? 


278 


BERENICE. 


Eunice, for^^ive me ! I will never see your husband again. I 
shall leave Paris. Don't hate me, Eunice. Pitv me, for I suffer.” 

“ You life of celibacy and sacrifice will only make him more your 
own. In all his holiest and highest thoughts you exist. I am his 
wife; you are his love. How can I pity you?’^ 

AYith a secret triumph, a wicked joy, I heard her giving me 
prophetically, for the c.oming years, Eric Ethel’s love. But her sad 
face changed my thoughts to better ones. She was too wretched to 
live long thus. How to console her I knew not. A thought occiUTcd 
to me. 

“ You are not wise and far-sighted about Eric Ethel,” said I. “He 
forgot another for me. AVhv not forget me for you, one of the love- 
liest women in Paris — -in the world, I might say.’’ 

“ Another, whom you supjfianted even in your (childhood — what is 
she to-day ? What has he made her ? Her revengeful spirit turns 
her love to poison. She lives to make him miserable, and with him 
all otliers who, by their grief in self-accusations and remorse, add 
to his. She brought me hither. She bade me see what I need not 
have seen — know what I only feared. For the furtherance of her 
evil ends the guiltless must suffer, and by suffering, sin. Yet she 
will never make me injure you, Ruth. No, never. I only regret 
that in this web of circumstances we are unwittingly entangled. In 
reproof I must speak. It will be the last unkind word I shall utter 
to you. L ist night's interview with my husband is, and ever will 
be, a stain upon your womanhood — ^^mur fii’st sin. I cannot say 
ranch good of Eric Ethel. He deceived me. He gave me a ficti- 
tious name. Why, I. do not know. He will not have the chance to 
explain.’’ 

She had not heard the wliohi of our interview; probably only the 
last words: 

“ He knew who you were wiieii you asked his protection in tlu' 
garden; By my description of you, he recognized my friend, and 
by knowing that you left home for Paris with a relative. He met 
you at the Astrologer’s, too. There was perfect proof of your iden- 
tity. Of your adventures in Paris your conversation with Monsieur 
Cardave told plainly.” 

“ He must have known my nature; it’s revolting from any viola- 
tion of the laws of friendship. He knew I would never betray you 
l)y inveigling your love into a marriage.’’ 

“ He intended to tell you his true name. It was written in the 
chapel register.” 

“ And I was so dazzled, blinded Avitli joy, I did not observe it. I 
gave myself, heart and soul, to one of whom I knew nothing. The 
very folly and romance and madness' of love ! I did not care 
whether he was Russian, Turk or Jew; whether he had a compe- 


BERENICE. 


•J71.) 

tence for in y support, or whether he had said to me, either liefore or 
after our marriage, ‘ Eunice, you will know hunger and cold with 
me. Your face will grow thin, your cheek pale from want.’ ’’ 

I would have answered, “It is all for you, and wdth you, Eric, 

J do not fear. We have no food, you say, but kings do not al- 
w^ays enjoy what we have — the full bainpiet of perfect and pure 
love.” 

Had he said, “Eunice, I have a mortal disease that wdll rentier 
meloatlisome to mankind, yet withal I shall pass away slowly ; 
it wall take me half a century to die ; 1 shall be leprous, hideous, 
[)eople will hurry by, fearing to look upon my face. ” 

I w^ould have answered, “Eric, you will be fair to me. 1 will 
tend you Jo 3 ’fully for a hundred years, if God gave them to me, 
and think the time short, and pray for your years to be lengthened 
for my sake j for without you what were life to me P 

Had he said, “Eunice, a serpent stung me ; its poison is in my 
veins; soon the fever of death will be upon me,” I would have 
put my lips to the wound and drawn from it the deadly venom, 
if I were too late to save him, I would have died with him. Vet 
I am only a doll wife I Think of it — a doll ! 

“Oh, Eunice, I wish he could .see you and hear you now. ” 

“Not now'. It is too late. Eric will never see me again — 
never, never. You know' wiiat I came here to say. My desire 
was not to reproach you. Really, I believe I only came to tell 
you that 1 did iiot know Eric Ethel. Do not doubt me, Ruth I” 
“No ! He told me all ! His remorse is great as my ow'ii.” 
“When he comes again, tell him he is free. The question which 
he asked you, and you in your soul answered, answer now, in 
words. You may soon be w hat you ought to have been long 
ago —Eric Ethel’s wife.” 

I meant to say to lier that 1 would never wed him, even if he 
were free, but she had gone before 1 could decide w hethcr my 
words were truth. 

“Why did you not entreat her to stay until she was reconciled 
to her cruel fate ?” asked one whom 1 had forgotten as though 
she had never lived. Miss Pinkington spoke from her couch by 
the window. She had heard all that passed. She went on to say : 

“She w ill <;ommit some rash act. Y^our interview with her 
husband w ill lead to something horrible.” 

For weeks I lay ill, delirious. I saw Eunice all day long. I 
thought she lay beside me in her shroud, with her long hair drip- 
l)ing, and the slime of the sea upon her lips. Alter I had recov- 
ered, the fille de chambre told me how wild she looked that night 
when, concealed in the adjoining room, she heard all. When 1 
was ill my ravings were enough to make one wonder if I had not 


280 


BEEENICE. 


led a wicked life. I arraigned myself at an imaginary tribunal, 
with a darker charge than any yet Jigainst me — the death of 
Eunice. Er. Wj^att had arrived in Paris to see (as he explained) 
what I intended to do with myself. 

When consciousness returned, I asked anxiously for Eunice. 
They were silent. I begged them to give me one answer: “Did 
she live 

They had heard nothing. Had they heard of Berenice? She 
had not been seen. Of Eric Ethel they knew nothing. Miss 
Pinkington said she desired to hear nothing of him. Dr. Wyatt 
told me that the “affair"’ of mine had turned out as he prophesied. 
I would want my lover when he was not to be gotten. 

“Yes/’ said he, “w^omen never know what they would have un- 
til they have swept every one that cared tor tliem into the cur- 
rent of a dark and ugly tide which they had muddied up them- 
selves. See what a wmmaii’s decision, made when she was angry, 
what a potpouri of disa-^ter it has brought.’^ 

A solemnity in Miss Pinkington’s manner gave me great con- 
cern. She told me she knew nothing of Eunice, but I doubted 
her being quite candid. At length, when my recovery was fully 
established, she told me some things that had transpired after 
my unconsciousness. She did so, I am convinced, to effect a 
radical cure, an uprooting of every ffbre of affection for one 
whom it was sin to love. The fate of Eunice was a source of 
continual torture to me. I w^ent to Madamf Garda ve*s. Eric had 
been there the day before quite frenzied about his wife. She 
had heard nothing since of either. She thought the astrologer 
had spirited her off. Her jealousy prompted this remark. Car- 
dave’s admiration for Eunice was still sounding the tocsin of 
alarm. I, too, dreaded that in her despair he had met her and — 
And yet, no ! That could not be. She loved ! Love would save 
her. 

“Love brought one woman low as the dust,” my heart an- 
swered. 


CHAPTER 11. 


No roses for her now ; 

Only snow 

Lies cold wherever flowers 
Used to grow— 

* ♦ * * ♦ « * 

Her trustful sweet young life 
Thus has died ; 

Nailed to Love’s cruel cross. 
Crueifled.— Zaeiffa. 


aLEANIXGS FROM OLD RECORDS, LETTERS, JOUK^iALS, ETC. 

“the spider and the fly.” 

About live miles from Paris [)roper, there is, to be practical, a 
pretty ‘hlove-cote,’’ to be truthful, oue; would have to speak of 
“soiled doves,” that flutter and fold their wiugs in the aforesaid 
house, of architecture elaborate, pretty and imzzliug j protected 
from curious gaze by trees and lattice- work, covered with vineSv 
Here ^dwells one who is said to be the fairest woman in Paris. In 
saying so, we rule out a diflereut type, a rare one here ; locks 
of gold, cheeks of i^eachy bloom, eyes of azure or steel, while 
giving the palm to this ■‘I3eauty of the Orient,” who drives su- 
perb horses, and drives them swiftly, too. In the winter her 
sylph-like, girlish form is wrapped in sables, not black nor glos- 
sier than her ebon hair. In the summer when w'e see her by the 
shimmering light of sunset clouds, not more delicate are they,, 
nor brilliant than her attirings. She wears diamonds that And 
no costlier rivals in size or settings. Every motion of her arms 
and neck is a myriad of star-gleams. She wears rubies. In 
color they remind us of her lips, or of the berries in the basket 
poised upon Pomonals head. Opals that make one wonder what 
influence their sinister charms may have had upon her evil life. 
Her history is not known, except that she is honored by the pre- 
carious preference of oue, with form erect, step militaire, pale 
complexion, pale moustache and wicked eyes. As she drives 
through the streets of Paris, the horses and the woman are con- 
sidered the finest of their separate types. Men stare, and wo- 
men, too, when they can without being observed. She alights 
18 


‘282 


BEBENICE. 


from her showy equipage, and the arch of her foot is a jioiiit of 
<iriticism. Lady Hester Stanhope would giv^e a place at table 
^‘above salB^ to this gentle lady as being nobly born. The curl 
of ber coral lip has the scorn of a prod and injured queen. Her 
eyes have many expressions. The love of Penelope, chaste, en- 
during and holy. Sigismunda the faithful, weeping over the 
ashes of love. Again, the despair of Niobe. In her sinful life 
her eyes have not yet become, as they surely, will, bad. Her 
heart has never yielded to guilt. (A paradox but a truth.) 
Many sin in thought but not in deed. Many in deed but not in 
thought. One year ago, in the twilischt, she walked on the banks 
of the Seine. The living tide, which makes the strong pulse of 
life in a great city, beat slow. It suited her purpose. She had 
waited for the coming of the night to find in the river oblivion. 
She had been a brave woman, having won victory over the as- 
sailants of a lonely, loveless youth, i>overty and passion. She 
stood with dire purpose, not doubting God’s mercy. He would 
receive her soul. She would know no more of the world than 
the bitter lesson already learned. She glanced hnrriedl.y around, 
none were near enough to see her, or to attempt her rescue. 
Even the tall towers had become dim and shadowy. The mo- 
ment seemed opportune. Yet it was not the one of doom. A 
black and sin-stained mantle came between her and the Eiver of 
Peace. The Eiver of Heath! The tempter was beside her. 
How he came to be there she knew not. Mysterious was his 
knowledge of her purpose. He was ever near her in her weaker 
moments ; appearing all unheard, and unseen, as if to save, yet 
always coming for evil. He laid Ids hand firmly upon her shoul- 
der as she bent forward, poised for the leap. 

“Foolish girl ! God has sent me to save you !’’ 

She started and stared, echoing his words: “God! l)o not 
blaspheme! Go from me! Know you not by this time that I 
am married, and that loving my husband I must hate you?” 

“I know. From the night you made a fool of yourself I saw 
the folly. And now I say, while I dare you to refute the asser- 
tion, I am the only one who really loves .you.” 

She clenched her white hands until the blood settled in the 
dainty nails, finding no answering words but, “Alas ! alas !” 
The night was coming fast and there were no stars appearing. 
She thought suddenly of her danger in being near him, and 
passed on with rapid step. He walked by her side in silence. 
Growing bolder as she ceased to reprove, he swore by the black 
and clouded and ominous sky above them, by the moon, the sun, 
by mortal love, the storied Seine, Heaven and the angels, that he 
loved her more than life or God. 


BERENICE. 


288 


“ Swear by what 1 know of/' said she, and I may listen— by 
the falseness and deception of man, the death of hope, the mis- 
ery of a broken heart ; by insulted and wronged womanhood ; 
by any, all, but not by the Holy One, or anything that God hath 
approved or blest, for in you, as in me, there is no holiness.’^ 

‘H swear no more, Eunice, but I ask of you a question, which, 
at this early date of j’our marriage, you ought to answer: Where 
is your husband at tliis hour V 

“He is w ith one whom he loves, and who loves him not better 
than I love him. Oh, no ! not better, not as well. What does 
that matter ? The more we love the less we are loved. My hus- 
band acts as all the rest. He tries to be happy, not thinking of 
what his happiness costs me.’^ 

‘vl am with the woman I love, and to whom in the darker 
hours of life, for dark hours will come to all, I will be her stay 
and protector. He never loved you ; I always did. I had your 
virgin-kiss. You were mine, if but for a brief moment, and by trick- 
ery, as you said it was. Life, bliss, heaven, all w^ent when you 
left me. I was after that in despair. I told you then it was folly 
to evade me, that when the hour came, the laws of gravitation 
were not more unerring than that law which ruled our destinies. 
It decreed that you should be mine.” 

^‘My course is downward ; you read it out for me at the astrol- 
ogers ; God, nor man, nor 1113^ own will comes to save me. I have 
escaped you twice. It augurs well that I shall not be false to 
m3" better nature. I will hurl myself into the jaws of death to 
hide me from you, and from him whom I worship, and yet he 
loves me not — m3" husband !’’ 

Yet still he walked on. Again and again she bade him begone. 
*She was silent at last while thinking of all he had said. The sweet- 
est Avord was “ vengeance.” It quickened an eA"il pulse. Sh(^ 
thought of his waiting to be rid of his “ doll Avife.” The better 
part of her nature was rocked in the luUaby of the unceasing song 
Avhicli had in its refi*ain, oblmon. Breaking her reverie, he con- 
tinued: 

“ You Avould be found in the Morgue. WIia', Avoman, you have no 
<*()uception of the lioiTors associated Avitli the name. Bodies, bodies 
on CA^eiy side ! Grim, ghastlv'-Aisaged, inhuman ! Half-nude, de- 
voured or marred, and disfigured by hungry Avater-vampires ! 
Others, found quickly' after death, are equally' revolting. Eoam- 
covered lips, slimed hair, distorted features ! You would be lying 
in the Morgue.” 

“ I shall not know Iioav people turn aAvay in loathing from me. I 
Avill be in heaven Av-itli my God. He Avill not cast me off.’’ 

“ Does not the spirit aaMcIi OA'er its shell ? Incredulous? AVell, 


284 


BERENICE. 


admitting that this is not to he trusted, that we know nothing aftei' 
death; another phase of drowning I bring to your thoughts, the 
worst of all others. Think of that wondrous form, a seulptor^s 
ideal, his Venus of Arles, or Venus Aphrodite. Either you would 
serv^e for. You would be polluted by the touch of coarse hands, 
feasted upon by vulgar eyes, while the water-logged gaiments re- 
veal what they should hide. Modesty should make you shrink from 
such an ekposure.’^ 

“ And are men so sensual that death will not make us angels to 
them 

“ Both angel and mortal you are to me. The diviner part of my 
natui’e is yours. You, the only woman who ever entered it. My 
good genius, coming to me after a life of folly to lead me aright.’^ 

“ I know not of you in any way, but as a debauchee, a destroyer 
of woman. I know of one victim. Y'^ou remember? I need not 
name her.” 

“ Had I met you lirst what a different record would have been 
written of my life. At last you come to me ! — my destin3^ Y^ou in 
all your beauty, an outcast, scorned, neglected. You may find re.st, 
security and bhss in the love and protection which God intended lor 
you. You married, and therein you wronged me. Retribution 
came, and that quickly, did it not ?” 

“ Retribution for my not being infamous, since you recpiired it of 
me ! An insult, even to my limited intelligence.” 

They walked on until they reached the frequented streets. For a 
second, when they came to a strong concentration of light, she looked 
for the first time during the walk, inquisitively" and curiously upon 
him. He w^as handsome as ever, soft-voiced and pleasant-mannered. 
Her ear inclined to listen, her heart to be lulled by the humdrum 
buzzing of the unceasing strain that sang of his love — the love 
which w'ould be last and be told of until he wearied of her. . 

How long would that be she asked of her judgment. Intuition 
and observation replied, just the summer days. But yet, to listen 
to the story through a brief season would be pleasant. The melody 
of a chord she had touched in one soul must be heard, even if in its 
refrain were the sacrifice of honor, the wad of conscience, the suffer- 
ings of remorse. Strong in desire to be pure, she was weak in re- 
solve. He drew for her vivid fancy a fearful alternative ; a loath- 
some picture, haggard and hungry-eyed; a phantom with hfe, stallving 
through the streets of Paris, or hiding from sight of man to die. 
The question was, “Staiwation or siii?’^ To one fidl of warm, pas- 
sionate, sensuous life how appalling the first ! To one trained in the 
rigid code of an asylum how soul-destroying the latter ! 

Not a friend was near to point out the right and bid her brave the 
pangs of cold and hunger, rather than cast her soul from its Heaven- 


BERENICE. 


285 


ward way ! The glorious world, her self- asserting youth, the proud 
consciousness of her loveliness, each had an evil power over her in 
making her choice. 

The love of life grew strong. She knew her chances with the 
sensualist. She might make him her slave for a few years, but she 
read her life’s history to the end. Even to be, in the coming time, 
cast off, forsaken, were better than life with the lover of Ruth Ward. 
She could not endure liis half-loathing, false caresses, his tardy and 
unwilling return to the loveless home, tlie slow torture of wedded 
life without love. She would not brave it. 

In the confiict her nature was sorely tried. She wept; she clasped 
lier hands in suppliance to an off’ended God. The gesture and the 
agonized expression were significant of her irresolution. 

He read her struggle. He knew she was weighing the pith of his 
proposals against starvation and death. He waited quietly the 
issue. Her steps grew slower. He drew her arm within his. She 
did not resist; she was thinking of the hard battle mth the world 
\\hi(‘h a poor and friendless woman has. He did not even touch 
the hand that was so near his. The trap was about to close upon 
his prey ! He would be circumspect. But the sense of light was 
lingering in her heart. The shame of a paramour, with the honored 
name of wife came out in vivid contrast. Realizing the utter degra- 
dation of his proposal, her pride was aroused. She turned an- 
grily to confi’ont him, saying: 

“ You think to drag me into the slougli of sin. Y"ou would have 
all of virtuous Paris staring at me. Mothers, as I pass them, point- 
ing at me in warning to their daughters. This is yoiu’ love, Mon- 
.sieur Cardave.’’ 

Cardave laughed, or rather, scoffed, at her reproaches: 

“ You entertain foolish ideas, unw'omanly scruples. Y"on have a 
<*ode of morals made liy those who never lived up to them. M’hy, 
the Grecian philosophers and sages were seldom congenial with their 
wives, seldom at home with them. They sought the brilliant and 
enchanting of the sex. Epicurus prefeiTed the society of Leontine 
to all others. Aspasia was the companion of Pericles and Socrates. 
Believe me, there is a wide dividing line between the commonplace 
daily life of man and his dream-life in the fancy-created isles of love. 
Tdie latter life I gave you, my peerless one, from the hour 1 first be- 
held you.” 

His words chained her attention, but she made no reply. Ho 
ventured, between the glare of lights, to j^ress the little hand now 
resting on his arm, and to hide it away within his own, and then 
to hold it to his heart. But she felt the danger and drew it quietly 
away from him. Then they walked in silence, she trembling at his 
pertinacity, wondering how she w'ould fi*ee herself ftom him. She 


BERENICE, 


28 (; 

Avoiild act promptly. Angel hands waved her back from tlie abys*. 
A rescue was at hand. He Avho had promised to love and protect her 
appeared to fultill his jjledge, at this peiilous moment. Involuntary 
must have been the movement. She bounded to meet him, jielding^ 
to the impulse of her mighty love. He drew her to his breast and 
lield her there Avhile he looked steadily at her tempter, who, subtle, 
quick of thought, answered the aggressive look by saying, in ex- 
planation of his being with her: 

“ Your wife was about to take a plungo into the Seine, Mr. Etheh 
Foi-tunately I was at hand and rescued her.’’ 

Eric looked doubtingly at him. She spoke (juickly, feming tin? 
consequences: 

“ Yes, my husband, he saved me; I was wretched and would havt‘ 
died but for hini.’^ Then she leaned heavily upon the strong arm and 
turned once more with him homeward. She thanked God that slie 
still had a home. AVhat had she been about to do. And he loved 
lier, all the time. To be sure he did. His manner was a proof. 
There was reconciliation and regret, and many a night that they 
slept Avitli the Angel of Love hovering over them m tears. He told 
her of his day of agony, and of her beautj^ and winning Avays com- 
ing before him to reproach and madden him; and hoAV, Avhen he had 
lost her, there Avas not in the Avide Avorld one Avoman to him like his 
Avife. At the Avord spoken by his lips she felt what a rich jeAv^el of 
a name it was, and Avhat paltry imitation of it Avas that Avhich the 
tempter proffered. So the days went on in the cottage. The young 
Avife, the fairest in Paris, and the strong, quiet-niannei‘ed man Avere, 
to all appearances, hapjiy, living as well as any had lived since the 
Avorld Avas prone to sin. The cold, the frost she dreaded in him fell 
not upon her feiTid spirit. She tended her ffowers, and dressed her 
black hafr with them for him. She fed her birds and sang Avith 
them, or to them, all day. When they hid then* heads under their 
Avings, she had lier husband, her king, her god ! 

The words he had said to Ruth she thought of as men s w(Ards, as 
Cardave’s. She had listened, yet she had not even tlie pjilhation for 
so doing that Ruth had. Ruth loved; she hated ! 

Happy days the honeymoon Avas to Eunice. There Avas no chanc'e 
of change. Only the grave could make him indifferent to her love. 
Her claims AA’ere sacred and indissoluble; she aajis his Avife. That 
AA'ord so proudly said, as one Avho lias it treasured up to Avhisper it, 
only in reverence. A joy greater still she dAvelt upon. Another life, 
her life and his, AA^ould be Avith them. In a feAv months, that great 
blessing Avould l)e theirs. She Avondered if his eyes Avould look at 
her out of the coming ones, and Avhether iu her age they AA^ould 
bring back the memory of the Eric Ethel of her youth. She Avon- 
dered, 2)i’‘Wed and hojied, as she dream<!d of Eric and his child. 


BEKENICE. 


287 


lie sat beside her, engaged in his professional duties, dashing 
with mad haste over pages and pages of hieroglyphical papers, she 
watched him, and sometimes when she bent down and kissed his 
white forehead he would look up to return the kiss. Oftenest he 
worked on, without even by a glance answering her fond evidence 
of her love for him. Perhaps the time was grudged, as if ’twere 
wasted, for to him time was precious; poverty" made it so. The 
hieroglyphics, as she called them, solved one great enigma for them, 
in golden answers. 

There came, just in the flush and spring time of her love, a part- 
ing; a short one it was to be, he said. 

“ A day or two Avas to her a long time now, since he Avas Avith her 
so much.’^ 

She had Avatched him through the poplars Avith Avistful eyes 
as he left her. Then she took up the little Avork-basket lined 
with pretty hleu de l^arin silk, and opened the treasures of lawns 
and laces, ar.d tiny, curious shreds of a fairy-like outfit, and 
sewed upon them, and sang with the birds. It was winter, and 
morning; a fire burned cheerily upon the hearth, and the ^‘pet” 
that Avas brought to haA^e its nose in the state other noses, human 
ones, have been, in orderly families, before now, slept uiAon the 
carpet, unconscious of the time Avhen he Avould be put out In the 
cold for disturbing an angebs slumbers. A ring at the door. She 
Avas sorry to hear it, for she wanted to scaa', and sing, and think 
of Eric, and of the (love that was to nestle on her breast. 

‘‘ The same lady avIio came here once, long ago,’^ said the ser- 
A’ant, adding, “ she excused herself for having no card.” 

‘‘ Is she in mourning ! ” 

Yes, madame.” 

Eunice, at this assurance, almost fainted aAvay. She feared 
her heart Avould burst with its terrified panting. But she must 
see her. Some imi)ortant object might be in her visit. Perhaps 
Euth was ill. 

With surmise and dread she Avent, knoAving her visitor. The- 
conversation Avas of generalities at first. She led her along,, 
cautiously and cunningly, to speak of the subject nearest her 
heart — her ‘^noble husband,” and then of Euth. Eunice asked, 
Avitli deei) solicitude, of her friend. Berenice reassured her. 
Euth’s health had so much improA^ed as to enable her to sing. 

“ Why did you not go to the city this morning, with your hus- 
band f ” asked she. Paris is Axry gay ; the change from this 
dull place Avould benefit you.” 

“ 1 need no change,” replied Eunice. “I fear to alter even a 
footprint of my daily walks. I might not be as happy as noAA^ 
And besides, my husband’s engagements are to be considered. 


•288 


BERENICE. 


I should not eudeaA or to take up his time for my pleasures, when 
he is at home with me so much.’^ 

There was a stab. By Eunice and Ruth her heart was 
crushed. Her marriage had not effaced her love for Eric Ethel. 
It had been simply one of convenience, made for her. In the full 
consciousness of the meagre chance of home or fortune, she had 
come to Paris to work out her plans. 

“ Your husband will hear Ruth sing to-night. Why cannot 
you 1 ’’ said she pleasantly, yet with significance. 

“ Why, he will not be in Paris to-night, nor two hours hence. 
Urgent business takes him farther,” answered Eunice, confi- 
dently. 

“ He has promised her to be at the theater.’^ 

‘‘ Imi)ossibl<i. He has not seen her.’^ 

“ Cannot people write their intentions ? He wields a pen, 
terror or joy, ruin or salvation, as he desires it, in every sweep. 
Who placed Ruth before the public Iiere, and at home, in the 
light of a Malibrau or a Pasta? Who but your husband? He 
may be a piece of mechanism when working for hire, but if in 
spired by the love of a woman, what then 
Your meaning is not clear.’’ 

“ He loves Ruth AVard. Y^ou know he does.” 

“ We would surely ex])ect him to be earnest in the cause of the 
woman he has loved, as long as either respected the other.” 

So answered Eric’s trusting wife, with a little tremor of her 
voice, and the slightest possible ffush on her olive cheek. 

‘‘ See what he wrote of her, here at your side, your beauty 
under his gaze. Read, and learn what you have to endure.’’ 

No, I will not read. I know she is a lovely being. Her 
voice is sweeter than any I ever heard. He can say nothing 
more of her than truth demands.’’ 

Baffled, only for a moment, she continued, hoping, at length, 
to goad P^unice on to jealous frenzy. 

“AA^ouldyou like to hear her sing? Since you are neither 
jealous nor envious, it will be a pleasure. Y'our presence would 
reassure her of your kind feeling. She often speaks of you to 
her confidential friend, who in turn, confides in me.’’ 

AVhat does she say of me ? ’’ 

‘‘ She speaks in lov'e, and doubt — doubt ot your forgiveness. 
H^unicenevx^r comes ; I shall die without seeing her.’ ” 

She shall not. She shall know that I forgive her.” 

Your splendid eyes speak v^olumes of generous words. 
’Twere well if she could read them as I do. Come with us to- 
night. Madame Carciave and mvself, I mean.” 

‘‘AAiiere?” 


BERENICK. 


28U 

To the theatre. Your presence would be a marvelous ben- 
elit to her. She is looking dreadfully after her illness. Pier 
meeting with Mr. PUhel was unfortunate, wasn’t it 

Oh, do not speak of it. I try bo hard to forget that fearful 
episode of my life.’' 

“Ah, indeed I I thought you were quite reconciled to that old 
atiair.” 

“ Why should 1 not be f We adore each other. He is with 
me when he can be. Can I ask more ? I onlj^ wish that Ruth 
had found the pure and peaceful love of which I unconsciously 
deprived her.” 

“You are noble, indeed. And yet with your magnanimity you 
are not willing to sacrifice an liour or two’ for her sake.” 

“ I am willing. I wdl go. My husband may not approve. 
For Ruth’s sake he should. 1 will risk his disideasure.” 

“How kind of you. Get ready, then. It is time to go.” 

“1 must gather flowers for her — violets, heart's-easc and 
^ pansies for thoughts.’ Wait, I will soon be with you.” 

At the opera, sitting as near the stage as possible, was her hus- 
band, his eyes resting upon Ruth. Eunice drew the curtain of 
her box, concealing herself and her party. 

She doubted him again when she saw him take the violets she 
had given him, and throw them upon the stage to Ruth, who 
surely looked tenderly upon them, and, after a while, pressed 
them to her lips. Still clinging to her faith in him she reasoned : 
Ruth does not see him among so many ; she does not know 
whence they come ; as to her husband, there was nothing wrong 
in giving violets ; she would go home in the morning as when 
she came ; she would not let one mean suspicion einter her soul ; 
in the morning she would see Ruth j they should i)art friends, 
for how manv j>artings proved lifelong, when we have thought 
them to be brief, xlnd besides, Ruth would be far away when 
her own life might be i^assiug into the shadows of death. 

In the morning Berenice and Madame Cardave, with whom 
she had passed tlie night, put her down at the hotel, to visit 
Ruth, promising to return for her within an hour. 8he would 
have an hour with her old friend in love and confidence, as they 
had in childhood at the asylum. She entered the parlor unan- 
nounced, thinking to surprise Ruth by sending for her without 
giving her name. 

QTie soft, grey eyes turned to Eunice as she entered. 

“ My husband here !” exclaimed the latter in astonishment and 
anger. ]N^o other word, no movement ! They stood paralyzed, 
powerless, fully comprehending in that one instant the conse- 
quences of the meeting. She saw Ruth, scanned her from head 


BERENICE. 


2 :)() 

to foot, the miiuitiie of her dress, the arrangement of her hair, 
even to the color of her habit — “ Emeraldine,’' — with high cor- 
sage nj) to the white throat. A sombre garb, no ornament to 
relieve it. The violets, drooping, dying upon her breast, was^ 
evidence conclusive to the jealous wife. No words of Eric's 
could stay her steps. He called her, but loved names had lost 
their power. She rushed into the streets of Paris, Hying from 
him, flying from herself. 

The tempter was not far from her. She hated him ; she hated 
her husband. Twice he had deceived her. This man, bad as he 
was, had, at least, kept her in memory, waited and watched for 
her. She was first in his mind for the present. It was better so 
than to be nothing. She could not not now die in the Seine ^ 
another’s life forbade it. 

A long, long illness ensued, out of which she came only an 
image of Eunice in cold marble. She had gone with him when 
homeless, weary, fever lurking in her veins, only intending to 
rest awhile, to think and pray, and decide what to do. 

Fate did not give her the opportunity to wrestle long with the 
evil one. Being entirely at his mercy for weeks, her faculties 
suspended from illness, she died a moral death. She had no one 
to bear the stain of her sin with her, no young life to cast its 
shade upon in the years to come. She clung to her destroyer. 
She lived a life of luxury, envied by the meaner, scorned by the 
better ones. 

One morning, about three months after, as she drove out, in 
passing through the gate, Eric waited for her. He caught the 
reins, held the impatient and restive horses, and bade her mock- 
ingly, “ (ro to the Seine and die.” With the whip, snatched trom 
the driver, she struck at him, leaving him mortified and hum- 
bled, while she dashed on to Paris. He called down the wrath 
of God upon the woman who had brought this great shame ujion 
him. The woman! Who could tell which of them, whether Eu- 
nice, Ruth or Berenice f 


CHAPTER III. 


Ouolly bt'jiton with stripes, 

(hist out in the world's highway 

By the hand that it honored and loved the most. 

The heart of a woman lay, 

Bobbed of its treasures of youth and love. 

Its beautiful raiment of Trust 
Bent in twain by the spoiler’s hand. 

And soih?d with the blood and dust.— I’eaki. Biveks, 

HOME COllKESPOXHENX'E. 

“I have bad a of the fairest woiiien in Paris P iny rela- 
tive remarked a few days ago, as he returned home at day-break. 
The '‘early bird'’ found me among the dowers, watering and tend- 
ing them and catching worms. 

“The fairest ? Who can the fairest be f ’ 1 asked, while the 
doctor waived me impatiently away, as if 1 would oppress or 
contaminate him^ saying at the same time: 

“Fannie, go away from me !’’ Pausing an instant, noticing my 
blank look at his abrui)t manner, he continued: “Wait for in- 
formation until 1 get over the shock and the suprise of last night.’' 
With these perplexing words he left me. My einjuiry was after- 
wards answered by his telling me, as I knew, that in the night 
he had responded to a “calf’ intended for one who was not at his 
post when needed. A lady, not very far away, was exceedingly' 
ill, and without medical aid. Ao prudent person would have 
gone out in the storm for one having no claims u|)on him, either 
as friend or patient. Rut Dr. Wyatt has a magnanimity of char- 
acter, rare in this time-serving world. He was never known to 
listen to suggestions of probabilities of eyil which might ensue 
to himself while benefitting others. Immunity from coughs, 
rheumatism, and other diseases belonging to age, he, according 
to his own opinion, possessed. So it came that, upon the night 
of the storm, he went to visit, professionally, the “fairest woman 
in Paris.” The person who summoned him, and the aid of a 
conveyance, in a short time brought him to the bedside of the 
sulterer; a woman with long hair, black as night, neglected, fall- 
ing loosely around her, mingling with billows of lace and folds of 
delicate-textured material. The outline of a youthful and perfect 


202 


BEREXICPl 


ibrm was plain. She was raving and tossing lierself about the 
bed, or again, throwing her head from side to side ui)on the pillow. 
The room was elegantly furnished, the toilette elaborate, with 
caskets and ornaiuents of silver, and pearl and ebony. Costly 
perfumes, rarest cosmetics, with unique a})pliances for them. 
Thrown over a divan was a gentleman’s robe de chambre of puri)le 
velvet ; slippers, too, embroidered richly. Strange to say, with 
all the superduity of dress and ornament, there was not to be 
found a drop of water to (luench the thirst of the dying woman. 

“Is there no one with her asked the doctor. 

“No one, it seems,” answered the man who brought him thith- 
er, adding : “There was not even a light when 1 came. I live 
fully a mile from here *, the rain fell heavier than I liked ; seeing 
the shelter of the perch I availed myse f of it. Hearing gro ms 
and shrieks, I entered the house, but not without considerable 
hesitation, for I once was deluded in the same w^ay, by just sucl^ 
cri^s and screams, to settle a little domestic disagreement.’^ 

“Hush, man! Cfo on with your story of my patient.’’ 

“I entered this place, groping my w^ay up the stairs and into 
this room, guided by her voice. The flashes of lightning revealed 
the bed and the occupant. I happened to have matches and 
thus procured a light. I saw* her Just as you do. Trying to find 
aid from the neighbors they closed the doors in my face. Some 
said, as I became importunate in asking their assistance, “Who 
loves danger should perish in it.’ ‘That you may perish in a 
lake of fire and brimstone,’ said I as I left them to return to the 
poor wmman. She had a moment’s interval of sanity, and 
begged me to go for a i)riest, but instead, I went for a doctor.’’ 

“Not a moment too soon,” said Dr. Wyatt, as he wrote a pre- 
scription. The rough, but kind looking stranger was willing to 
go through the storm to the nearest druggist’s. The doctor 
warned him, how'ever: 

“This is a bad case of small pox, ray friend. Are you afraid of 
it, or rather have you had it f ’ 

“1 have not had it, and fear it, but 1 fear the punishment of 
God more. If I left this woman to die, I would, like as not, have 
a worse death than hers.” 

‘Well, my Christian friend, since 3 ’ 0 ’u are willing, go as quick 
as you can. This will quiet her, but that is all it will do. If 
she wwo, b 3 ' any chance, to live, she will be frightfully disfigured. 
No care has been taken of her. She has torn her face terribly.” 

He then set about trying to relieve her. He wet her lips with 
wine that was at hand. He bathed her with scented waters, and 
bound up the beautiful, long, black hair, and tried to trace 
through the swollen features the face of the sufterer. His first con- 


BERENICE. 


293 


elusion was : This woman lias been fair. Then be found that she 
was young by her slender, girlish form, and in no other way, for 
her lace and neck and arms were one confluence of loathsome 
sores. And, besides, he thought (very erroneously, as proving 
her youth) ‘Hhat only a young woman would have the jewels 
ujion her arms, and the gay coloring seen in the garments strewn 
around. ’ Whoever she was, she evidently had been abandoned 
by every one, even those who had lived in servitude with her. 
They had most probably fled from the house when her disease 
became developed and identified. He felt justified, from the na- 
ture of the case, to read a note which was slijiping from under 
her pillow. On opening it a thick roll of bank bills fell to the 
floor. The lines read : 

‘‘ My Love ! My Life ! — I have never had the loathsome dis- 
ease with which you have been unfortunate enough to become 
infected by your mistaken and rejirehensible kindness to that 
poor family. I warned jmu, at the time, not to go to them. Do 
not think me a coward. I do not fear death. But to be disfig- 
ured and live! — that 1 can not be. I have not the nerve for it, 
even for you, my life! my soul! I enclose money. You shall 
have it, my darling, as you always had, galore, to get you out of 
your trouble — and after it, too. Try to find some one invulnera- 
ble to the disease to nurse you through it. Send for Dr. im- 

mediately. Be particular about your beauty. The fairest woman 
in Paris to be so stricken is a terrible contemplation. Do not 
write or let any communication reach me from the house. Paper 
is a sure vehicle of contamination. I hope and pray. While I 
awmit my result I await my doom. Your own faithful, 

Cardave.” 

She had read this acknowledgment of his utter selfishness. 
It was her last insult. The doctor remained until, from the nar- 
<K) tic, sleep ensued. He procured, in the neighborhood, an at- 
tendant tvhose seamed and pitted face proved invulnerability. 
His next thought wa^ to find whether one associated with the 
sad fate of. Eunice, had a greater, a more merciful soul, than Car- 
dave. 

She awakened from troubled dreams to hear his voice : 

Eunice!” 

‘‘ Eric ! My husband that was has come. Who has been so 
kind to me in letting you know that I was dying — dying in 
m3’ sin — d3'iiigin my 3’outh — d3Tng through 3’ou.” 

You regret my coming f ’ 

^‘Oh, no. I will listen now to 3’our denouncement; say what 
you would sa3’.” 


21)4 


BERENICE. 


‘‘ Poor, unhappy one ! 1 will not reproach you — I, for whom 

you threw away home, happiness, wifehood, all dear to woman. 
Nour love for me wrought your ruin. 1 knew it from the hour 
you left me. A^et you were deceived. The scheme was i)lanned 
well.” 

‘‘ It was his work. I hated him from first to last. I hated 
him when I, rather than starve, endured the loathsome touch of 
his hands, the contamination of his lips. But I was tired ol 
battling with the world ; tired of doubting, wondering, despair- 
ing. Had I not fallen ill my life would not have been what it 
has been.” 

“ Why did you not listen to me when I tided to explain ?’' 

Do not ask me. How could I listen when I saw what could not 
be explained V I trusted you, Eric. I was content, even after your 
meeting with Ruth the first time. You knoAv I Tvas. Can you blame 
me for not lielieving, when proof was so strong against you ? The 
fever brought on by grief took away the last consolation from my 
wretched soul — the joy to come, the blessing we often talked of in 
our home, that home so desolate now. At early morn, as at mid- 
night, C'ardave was near me, buzzing his love stories into my poor, 
tortured, weaiy brain ! You did not come. I prayed for your 
(‘oming. He loved me; he said so, over and over, until I half be- 
lieved. Such love ! At length tired of pleading, he bade me adieu. 
Abandoned, unloved, unpitied, poor ! I recalled him. He knew I 
would. I am punished. AVhen I am dead think mercifully of me. 
Think how small my chance was in such a life as mine of knowing 
how to act when dangers beset me. Y^ou do not forgive. Ah, me ! 
the w'iles he used. He told me in exultation my good name w^as 
gone. I gave heed to his Avords. I had been in his house for weeks 
—all the time of my illness. ‘ It is impossible,^ said he, ‘ for you to 
be farther from your husband, or nearer to me, than you are at this 
moment.’ What availed resistance then? How broken-hearted I 
was in believing you loved Ruth, and that I had been your ruin — I 
w4io would have died for you. Think it all over. See me ! I die 
without a look at your dear face. God has thought me too Avicked 
to look at you. Ruth Avould have been your AAufe but for me. When 
I am dead she may be. My death aa III be a happy release for you. 
You only in our married life pitied me, and I, oh, God ! hoAv I loved 
you.” 

Eric kissed her, and leaned her head against his breast, speaking 
kindly, too, still not gainsaying what she had said as to Ruth Ward. 

The story is finished in a feAv Avords. When Eunice AA'as first 
known to be ill of smaU-pox, the “ superb horses ” AA^ere driven 
quietly through the gate, AAdiere Eric had met and grasped the reins 
and received his humiliation. Cardave’s orders AATre to let them 


;berenice. 


pasture/’ They had been in contaminated air. (Doubly contani- 
inated by his existence therein.) Piece by piece household effects 
Avere stolen away. The thieyes, for their own interest’s sake, kept 
their secret of the infected house. While she Avas dying of neglect, 
the faithful attendant Avas fumigating her costly robes and delicate 
laces to add to her hoards. JeAvels disappeared, to be found trod- 
den down in deeper stratas, blacker sloughs. of sin. The Samaritans 
took charge of the f/c6r/.s after the gleanings. 

A bonfire told of the going out from Paris and from the Avorld, a 
Magdalen to AAhom, perhaps, her Sayior Ayould be more merciful 
than man. 

Before the Swiss cottage was saiiatariaiiized, Cardave had fal- 
len a victim to the disease he dreaded with a puerile, unmanly 
<lread. He was not left without attention, as the i)Oor victim of 
his vanity and cowardice had been. To the rescue came foolish 
Madame Cardave. She Avas beside him, nobly bravirg the dan- 
ger which menaced the relics of her faded beauty. “Wlien the 
devil was sick the devil a saint would be.” So came a sudden 
freak of penitence. HoAAever, his temper wms hot, for behold- 
ing in the mirror his altered physiognomy, he cursed himself and 
Eunice. In his rage he thrust his foot through the unconscious 
offender that told unpleasant truths. Handsome Cardave! with 
i\\Y militairel What a mocking representation of him has Mad- 
ame Cardave now. Her truant has played out his stolen holiday. 
Parisian belles behold ! He is no more the umpire of fashion— 
the Beau Brutnmel of the day, the irresistible, the oily mannered, 
oily-tongued tempter of innocence, pursuing cA^ery new face un- 
til ffAvms brought to bear the stamp of sin Avhen shame departs. 
CardaA'e is now in retreat. A recluse, contentious and cross. 
Trifles, light as the air, moA'e him from the “e\^en tenor of his 
Avay,” which he owned Avhen life Avas a strain of selfish iileasure, 
lewd chords, and symt)honies. Strains of the Syrens to the Sy- 
barites ! If traces of the hideous disease AV'ere obliterated, Avhat 
AA^ould CardaA'e be? What he Avas. Madame CardaA'e has the 
Avreckage, the flotsam and jitsam of the hadsome ship, whose 
treasures Avere too soon Avasted — caught up in the grasp of hy- 
brids, half Avomen half fiends. The mermaids that cling to one 
in the days of argosy, and dash off, never to be seen, Avhen the 
storm comes and treasures disappear. 

persuasion, no arguments, no exposition of facts, ungarbled 
by hate or prejudice, aaTII make the foolish Avife belie\'e (out of 
her too jiartial Avifeliuess) her husband’s culpability. She tells 
her story to her friends : 

“The deep, designing woman attached herself to Cardave tor 
his Avealth.^^ 


296 


BERENICE. 


How little we are understood in this world. Our best traits, 
our finest impulses perverted, to our ruin. The tortures of jeal- 
ousy j the treason of Ethel ; the remorse, the cruel desertion by 
Cardave ; the terrible death which followed, have no atonement 
in them to Madame Cardave, for one, poor, weak girl holding 
through a brief season the preference of the fickle voluptuary. 
She never believes that through the river of her sin run the 
strong, hidden current of lov^e for Eric Ethel, and that from its 
depth and strength she was lost. 




I 


CHAPTER IV. 


On the shore where the waves are beating 
Write thy name upon the sand, 

Lo ! the waters when retreating. 

Bear it from the silent strand. 

Ask them for the vanished writing. 

Writing written by thy hand.— ZARiyPA, 

HOME CORRESPONDENCE. 

Her sceptre is Iain down with the indifit’crenco of a tragic 
queen after the curtain falls. Her crown of myrtle and laurel is 
folded awa^^ in crape, to be kept in the mould of disuse until It 
crumbles to dust; or, it may be brushed up in the years tocome» 
brought to light by those who wander about, like ghouls in grave- 
yards, searching for buried and forgotten idols — cliildren of the 
brain. 

I have tried to trace out the source of the influence her guar- 
dian must have hud over to lead her to so important a step. 
is usually tirni in purpose. What a downy jiillow, except for 
ugly dreams, has ‘‘an old man’s darling.” Can you Qnd pallia- 
tion for a young and pretty woman who makes a marriage of 
convenience? I cannot. 

1 had almost forgotten, in writing of my observ^ations, to men- 
tion her health. She is absolutely ill. A material change in the 
routine of her life is absolutely necessary. Intimations of our 
leaving France reach me indirectly. You shall, if it prove truth, 
occasionally receive “souveuiers of travel,’’ jottings which may 
have interest for you. 

In dearth of news I relate a strange story. It deepens a mystery 
belonging to a life, or a portion of it, connected with the Lady of 
Mount Marah. In allusion to the circumstances of the history I 
must remark that without believing in supernatural agencies, or the 
presence of spirits, where hving and visible beings hold concourse, 
we cannot deny that events transpire, startling us by their mystery, 
tending to make the impressionable and credulous proselytes to an 
unestalDlished creed. 

The story goes: Some twenty-five years ago there appeared in 
Paris one who presumed to have the knowledge of abstruse science 
and occult doctrines. His gifts were said to be of hereditary trans- 

19 ‘ . 


298 


BERENICE. 


mission, from ages when shepherds watched their Hocks on Judea's 
hills ; when sages followed the Star of Bethlehem. Prophet, saint, 
hierophant, savaii or theosophist, he might have been one or all. 
Disciples to follow him, in any path he chose, would have been 
^readily found. Knowledge too deep for language to interpret kept 
him in his silent moods. Prophecy was heard in his incomprehen- 
.sible riddles, when he held communion with the starr}-- heavens, and 
read from them, for his believers, the mystic scroll of life. This 
man appeared one morning in the streets of Paris, and if it had not 
Been for an aii* almost superhuman in its mysteiy and sanctitude, 
his remarkable pmionel w'ould have attracted attention from the 
rabble. The St. John’s head, in its expression holy and awe-in- 
; spiring, kept them at bay. Some wondered, while weaker ones 
feared and wispered, “ Wizard! Conjurer!’^ He soon became 
known, in a more respectable way, as the “ Astrologer.’’ Living in 
.ar,quiet part of Paris, having rooms furnished with exqisite taste, 
-articles of ornament, solid, sound and costly decorated them. Sofas, 
divans and fanteuls, in gold and scarlet; seats for tele a tele and 
good humor; solitaires for sullen moods; consoles, vases of jar- 
^dlnieres, tilled with the choicest Howers; art etchings, of an older 
ifitchool than ours, attractive from their strangeness; carpets so vivid 
XQ coloring and artistic in design, they led you to believe you could 
: ga ther the gorgeous blossoms upon which your silent footsteps fell, 
With the mysterious light of perfumed tapers, one beheld a scene 
‘Of enchantment, wondering whether it could be reality, all the more 
when far back in the delusive light w'as the chef d'ceaere of Art, 
Hcience and Astrology, “ The Bower,” veiled in slxrouds of lace, 
seen through the filmy, oscillating gauze, a green back, covered 
with roses, upon which reclined the sleeping angel. Wonderful ! 
Dream-like I 

The man must have had agents, shrewd ones, to give him the insight 
xxf each one’s secret life. Visitors entering skeptical, went away, if 
not believing, at least wondering. In his silky-voiced manner he 
told their inmost thoughts. He read of amours and illicit love in 
the signs and stars. As if the heavens sullied their white pages 
with sins for man to read ! The high-born and wealthy trembled 
^d craved his mercy as he read to them the past. The future he 
-could, in most cases, fashion to suit himself. Though Conscience 
stood appalled at the first shock, the net was adroitly cast . The 
poor fish might shimmer around and sheer off for a while, at length 
it must be drawn. The vortex w^as strong and deep. 

He gained confidence from many sources; the unscrupulous, the 
needy, and the avaricious; secrets involving happiness and reputa- 
tion^ Women w'ere not his only dupes and victims. A husband 
suspicious of his wife’s fidelity would steal away in the night to this 


BERENICE. 


299 


*‘seer/’ to be either assured of his suspicions, or disabused of them. 
Often at the same time to be infected with a fever bringing an un- 
holy thirst for other waters than those i^resented in the mutual cup. 
Houries were sipping at the same fount, athirst for the great elixir 
— gold ! In meeting the four devotees of Moloch he forgets the 
annoyance of Madame’s suspected peccadilloes. Converts to the 

church in Rue de become marvelously numerous. When had 

altar such fair young devotees? Such rare sacrificial offerings? 
The priest thereof, fair of speech, would conjure up for the lover, 
mystic charms that, in conjunction with the bower of love, gave hini 
the view of his coinjmgnon de voyage^ if not for life, at least while 
necessary to each other’s happiness. Like the rest of the world he 
has been obliged to succumb to Time. His hair is silver, his eyes 
are faded, but yet within them is a glance of unholy fire. His fin- 
gers, crooked and clawed, look as if they had grown so from grasp- 
ing at gold. In the days of his popularity, there lived in Paris, with 
her invalid father, a young lady from the South, an heiress, whom 
many at home must recollect. You will, perhaps, when you read 
this, recall the story of her mairiage. AVh}' did she seek this man ? 
Most probaby she was decoyed to his house, for her first visit was 
not in the credulity of one inquiring into what is wisely concealed 
from us, nor was it in the spirit of fun and frolic. "Whatever its na- 
ture may have been the lady was more unhappy after it than before. 
She evidently became a believer in this man’s power. His prophet- 
like appearance; his work of stars and signs spread out, a mystic 
scroll before him, deceived her as they had others. A distinguished 
looking person visited the Astrologer upon the days her visits were 
observed. His grand j^crsonel interested her. The sequel. In a 
shori time, the soldier, wearing so grandly the “ Cross of the Le- 
gion,” became a lover. He won her at the house where she had 
gone to receive information of a. lover in America. I forgot to men- 
tion that a few weeks before her marriage her father died in Paris. 
With her mourning attire and her sad look, a solemn marriage it 
was. People who witnessed it remarked, that of all misery at the 
altar it was the least disguised. That was saying a great deal in 
Paris, where matches are made, and hearts are severed carelessly, 
mechanically, as the cells of an orange ! AVhen this outrage upon 
the heart’s noblest instincts is perpetrated from one generation to 
another, the offsprings of hallowed love must be a gerin of human 
birth rare as flowers at the mouth of a crater. A friend of Gault’s, 
a younger man than he (Eric Ethel, I mean), accompanied them to 
America. Some mystic bond of brotherhood bound them together. 

Victorine Aubrey, of whom I have been writing, was one @f many 
whose lives were blighted by the “ Astrologer.” You know how she 
lived at IMount Marah with this strange, dark and moody man ! A 


300 


BERENICE. 


lovely Southern girl lately fell into the vreb of our human spider. 
He went to America to secure her, claiming her. as a near relative, 
which she was. She extricated herself bravely for a time, but finally, 
through his instrumentahty, she w'as lost. He still goes on in 
his iniquities. He panders to all vices, caters to all appetites. 
Greed, with its eager, hungry eyes, sits at his board, and feasts upon 
gold ! Lust comes, and the loveliest of its votaries appear at the 
wave of his hand. Innocence casts off its pure, white robes and 
becomes scarlet as sin. He lives and enjoys life, hides aw^ay his 
coins hke the magpie, where they will benefit no one. He w^ill, of 
course, bestow^ his ill-gotten gains upon his daughter, Blanche, whoso 
resemblance to a lady of rank that often visited the Astrologer’s- 
rooms in da3"s long gone, is detrimental to her sociaH interests. 
Were it not that that the two ladies dare not appear together, on 
account of inferences, by officious peojffe, drawn from coincidences, 
strengthened by the striking similahty of faces, Blanche would have 
been blooming and destroying, true to the germ, a fair yet poison- 
ous flower in the garden of sin. Not as she is now, in its hidden 
and dark retreats. 

As for plots woven, pitfalls set, for the timid feet of Victorine 
Gault we know nothing. Doubtless the Astrologer stuck his arm to 
the elbow in the coffers of the Aubrey gold, for his part of the con- 
spiracy. So judges the doctor. (This last remark is his). 

If any one can get out of this tangled skein a thread of circum- 
stantial evidence to prove why Victorine Aubrey deceived the man 
she loved, married the one she did not love, and made for herself a 
deseH, which she knew she must travel to the end, with the moody, 
grim, uncongenial Gault. I would think it time weU spent throw- 
ing hght upon the strangest marriage upon record, and one which 
was, at home, the “ nine days' wonder.'^ 

The web and w^oof of a dark tale of cunning, plotting mesmeric 
tricks and delusions, optical phantasmagoria among them. The 
Bower of Love was not, I am certain, the least significant. 

Verily, I believe Dr. Wyatt’s visit to Paris was chiefly to traco up 
the old affair in which he w^as so deeply concerned. 

In concluding my story (or Dr. Wyatt’s) : The house of the astrol- 
oger, with its many apartments and intricacies and mysteries, a la 
Renaissance, is empty. The gendarmes were set upon the track of 
the imposter, for the supposed abduction of a young manied lady, 
who mysteriously disappeared from her home in the environs of 
Paris. Old rumors are called up; facts may be elicited from them 
of wLich you shall be cognizant in due time. 

I take up a broken thread, telling you thereby of our progi’ess. 


BERENICE. 


301 


When Ruth appeared for the last time, the house was literallj 
packed, the audience an enthusiastic rather than a cultivated one. 
Madame Cardave and Berenice, who have become inseparable com- 
panions, annoyed me with their continued strain of remarks, kept up 
during the whole performance. 

Oh, that accursed passion jealousy ! It is the world’s supreme 
evil; the vampire that drains from the heart every duct of human 
feeling. The slanders I was compelled to hear were not only of the 
living but of the dead, the judged and the forgiven. Forgiven ? 
Ah, yes; God ft? merciful. 

After every poisoned arrow had been spent, Madame Cardave 
.aroused once more to madder fury the couchant tiger, by remarking 
of Ruth : 

‘‘ To-night she is to me more than ever ‘ Rachel.’ The same f)as- 
sionate gestures, the deep pathos of voice, the same absolute power 
over her audience. There is no acting in what we see. Since the 
-curtain arose I have not thought of my being in the theatre. All 
before me seems so perfect, so real.” 

“ I am thinking of a sick-looking woman, with a bad conscience 
and a bad heart. Hideous thing, with her pallid cheeks and spec- 
tral eyes ! She who is shrieking at us is no longer the Ruth of 
Mount Marah.’^ 

“ You are too natural. Pardon me when I say more. Your hate 
is expressed too earnestly, too vulgarly, for a lady.” 

“ I must mouth my words, because they are unfit for ears polite. 

I hate with a vulgar hate. I pronounce my condemnation of the 
wretch who wrecked m}*^ life in words that give the true calibre of 
my feehngs.” 

Madame Cardave was evidently, for some reason, trying to 
say unkind things, that, in their truthfulness, cut all the deeper. 

^‘Your personal dislike makes you unjust. Accord, at least, to 
her what God has given her — beauty in a remarkable degree ; 
a voice which you will acknowledge to be wonderful ; a noble, 
self-denying si)irit. Poor girl ! even these are nothing when she 
has not peace ot mind.” 

“You dwell upon her beauty. AYhen compared to another, 
whom we know, she is a very commonplace person in appear- 
ance.” 

The.Parthean arrow hit the mark. Madame Cardave flushed 
up to her brows, and answered : 

“Eunice, you mean ? I never admired the girl. Sickly, sal- 
low, frail as a reed. Give me at least a tinge of coloring.” 

“That gallant husband of yours had a high appreciation of her 
beauty. Between him and Ruth Ward her ruin was completed.’'' 


802 


BEKENIOE. 


Madame Cardave tried to be polite while she warded off the 
Partheao arrows. 

“It was unfortunate, indeed, her meeting my husband, but if 
she hadn't met him somebody else would Inive acted the same 
part. Her reign with him was the briefest that woman ever held 
overman.’’ 

“How could it be long? She died.’' 

^Hlad she lived, he would have wearied of her. He is ugly 
now, thanks to her; but he is good, always at home, always by 
my sale.” • 

“Is he reconciled to his disff gurement V' 

“Xo! He has an eye and a soul tor all God's beautiful works. 
Marred, disffgured, he who was once so perfect. How can he be 
reconciled ? At times he is morose, contentious, and altogether 
ill-natured; again he is subdued, womanly in his thoughtfulness 
and attention to me.” 

In his cowardice, more than womanly, thought I. Abandon- 
ing his victim to save himself was evidence conclusive. 

“This is not her last benefit. She has no idea of abandoning 
the stage. Her admirers will be agreeably suprised at her sec- 
ond debut,’’ said Berenice, changing the subject. 

“I am sure 3 011 are wrong as to your opinion of her move- 
ments and purposes. She leaves Paris very shortl^^,” answered 
madame. 

“She will not leave the stage. Paris ; oh, yes! she leaveshere 
on account of the suit. She will, in time, be the old doctor’s- 
wiie. What she may be to Mr. Ethel I will not suggest. BuG 
mark me, married or single, she will sing again in public.” 

From curiosity", proverbial to spinsters, I drove out to the 
house where Eunice had lived in her wifehood. The grass had 
choked up the flowers, the path were she had bounded out to 
meet her husband was covered with leaves. The cages were 
emi)ty. Where were the birds ? “He set them free,” a bystander 
exclaimed. The dog lay upon the threshold, half starved. The^ 
shutters were not fastened, and through a broken j)ane I drew 
back the curtain and saw the sitting apartment as she had left it 
to go with Berenice to the cit3\ Her Xiuy slii>per8 lie there, the 
moulding of her ])retty foot quite plain. There, too, was the 
daint.v little work. basket, nestling in it shreds of laces and lawns. 
The plumage of the household dove whose white wings were 
never to hover over them. 

“Better so, since she has gone in the sinful wajV’ said I, as I 
dropped the curtain, and turned away with a heavy heart. 


BERENICE, 30a 

‘The little cast away glove; the last thing she touched. I 
wonder he would leave that,” remarked Dr. Wyatt. 

“Ah ! lie knew not ; can never know, what tlie struggle cost 
her to leave him and cast her lot with the scarlet robed.” 

“VVe will, it' you please, ” said he, “give no description of the 
scene to Ruth, fehe is wretched enough without hearing of' 
Ethel’s blighted home.” 

Ilow very considerate, 1 thought. 

Miss Ward walked through the room just before I sat down to 
write. She moves about in a distrait way, with her hand& 
clasped, not even noticing those present, and I really believe^ 
without knowing where she is. With deep concern in his face^ 
the doctor remarked to me a moment ago : 

“Ruth is like poor Victorine in her ways — preoccupied, ab- 
stractfcd to an alarming degree.” 

“The Lady of Mount Marah is one above all others, dead or 
living, whom we should pray that Ruth should not resemble,^ 
answered I. 

“It may be that every one unconsciously imitates some other 
one, and that she, by this rule of Nature, reproduces the char- 
acter with its gloom and mystery which, for ,vears, was her chief,, 
almost her only contemplation.” 

“The subtleness of your philosophy makes it obscure to me*. 
Why one t^hould be wretched because they have lived with oth- 
ers who were so, I cannot understand. I have been a laier sub- 
ject for her study and imitation. Why not as likely for her 
have been like me ? To be sure she would not be so interesting: 
as now. You would not exi)ect Miss Ward to cither think or act- 
like matter-of-tact people. Seriously, Dr. Wyatt, if you are 
alarmed about her melancholy take her hence, before it is toO' 
late. Why are we staying here so long ?” 

“ You anticipate my words and movements. I have letters from’ 
home requiring Miss Ward’s i^resence to attend, within a few months,., 
to her interests in the Aubrey estate. It is really amusing to have- 
the same witness for prosecution and defense — Miss Ward for andE^ 
against Miss Ward. What we know is strong in opposition to what- 
we would like to know; and all of it is to prove that poor Victorine^ 
was either mad from the time she came to Mount Marah as Gault’s 
wife; or, that she never was mad.” 

“ The issue will scarcely be in favor of Miss Ward ?” asked I. 

“Not a probabihty of it. However, we appeal, -which is as good 
as defeat to Berenice. In time she will die. No matter then w’hat 
becomes of it. Our object accomplished, our promise fulfilled, we 
can let it go to the State, or to the devil. Miss Ward will be pretty- 
comfortable without the Aubrey lands.” 


304 


BERENICE. 


“ Clear as day !^’ exclaimed I, as lie left the room. “ She Avill, in 
a few years, be a pale and interesting wddow — the widoAv of a foolish 
old man. In a lew years what will it matter how the grave and 
solemn judge of to-day or to-morrow issues his decision ? — whether 
in the scale Ruth or Berenice tips the beam ? In a few years the 
little spot of earth allowed to us — our only biithright, of which 
naught but the deep sea can cheat us — will suffice for the claimants 
of the Aubrey estate. 

Awaking from my moralizing I went to speak to Dr. Wyatt of 
what I considered in his proceedings to be injudicious and injurious 
to his ward. 

You have taken from Ruth the only chance of forgetfulness, by 
influencing her to resign her profession, and with it tlie excitement 
which kept up some show of life or w^orld-interest.” 

My chief aim in this conversation was to And out his views for her 
future. His reply mystified me in a greater degree. 

“ There is always a good and sound reason for what I do, or I try 
to think there ia Caprice is not a trait of mine, Fannie.’^ 

Self is at the bottom of your reasoning, 1 thought, and thus my 
thoughts ran on about the Doctor. 

“ You have taken your idol from the gaze of the world, that you 
may the oftener feast your own eyes.” 

1 resumed the conversation, saying : 

“ My cure, in heart troubles, is work. Let it be beyond our 
strength, rather than within it. Keep iip the tension. We will live 
on in the feve;" and the toil. Expectancy brings a warm and pene- 
trative cordial for the faint heart; but in the icy sea of inaction, 
stand the petrifactions of hope. The rocks on which we are wrecked, 
axe oftenest those upon which we slowly drift.’’ 

■ He demanded rather than asked: 

“ What has all this to do with Ruth’s leaving the stage ? She w'as 
actually dying before our eyes, yet you would not have me advise 
her according to my judgment.” 

Ah, I forgot you are one who administers to diseases of the body 
as well as of the mind. Pardon me ; my solicitude for Ruth, led me 
beyond my province.” 

The interview ended. I knew no more than before it began. 

As to Mr. Ethel, the vacillating and capricious, wilfully blind, 
coldly callous, — I despised him. How he treated Ruth, when Eunice 
saw them together ! She wept bitterly as she related the affair to 
me, in one of her communicative moods which, now-a-days, come 
but seldom. She said: 

I looked at him in an indifferent way, a surprised expression 
following. The surprise was genuine; the coldness was not. My 
white face, my trembling hands gave it the lie. Eunice came in, un- 


BEKENICE. 


805 


announced. She believed what any wife, under the circumstances, 
would have believed. He had not had time to explain the purport 
of his visit. I did not doubt that Eunice had made the appoint- 
ment with him. I had heard of her desire to see me. I met her 
eyes. There was no forgiveness in them. The look appalled me. 
Before I could arouse myself to act, to speak to her, she had gone. 
Then he turned to me, looking in my wretched face, earnestly and 
angrily ; speaking almost fiercely, he asked ; 

“ You required my presence, Miss Ward ?’' 

“I! no, no, Mr. Ethel! I did not signify, to any one, in any way, 
that your presence was desirable to me.” 

He stared in astonishment, at my denial, asking again the same 
question. 

“No,” answered I, emphatically, “your name has, of late, neither 
been spoken nor wHtten by me. 1 say to you, once more, what I 
thought I had said for the last time, Mr. Ethel, — farewell!” 

He answered, calling me by my Christian name, the word so softly 
spoken; “Ruth!” I faltered for an instant, in my resolution, but 
summoning up mv pride, I answered his fond appeal, with lifted 
brows and curled lip, expressive of surprise and scorn, as he uttered 
only one word : 

“Sir!” A history of alienation was in its tone. Had I rehearsed 
it a year, it could not have been more expressive of what I did not 
feel. I had cut him to the soul; I knew by his next words: 

“ I am miserable. Fiends in the form of women, have destroyed 
me.’’ 

“ I did not bring you here. Wh}" tell me of your misery ?” 

“ You were the beginning, and are now the end. You brought 
fill upon me. I loved you, woman.” 

“ Mr. Ethel, you dare speak to me of love ?” 

“Not tell you what you have done? Y'ou will not hear me ? You 
will not pity me, not when I am mad with shame ? Eunice is lost. 
She has seen me here. She will listen to no explanation. Can any- 
thing be worse than this V” 

“ The fairest woman in Paris, lost to her husband. Measure your 
misfortune at its true estimate. Think of it: The fairest woman in 
nil . Paris. No tide of circumstance, setting from the sea of fate, 
will bear to you again, such argosy. At your home had you not 
better seek your wife ? If you meet her there, justify me.” 

He knitted his brows; his hands clenched, as if he had a fearful 
opponent and not the poor shadow I had become. I thought I 
should fall. I grew so weak I moved to lean my head against the 
mantel, while he paced the room back and forth rapidh', never look- 
ing at me, not as he left me, saying even farewell. 

“ In meeting him, as I describe, did I wrong her ?” asked she, ab- 


30(5 


BERENICE. 


ruptly and nervously. Without waiting’ for my repiy, she went on : 
“ Say that I was the cause of his being a forsaken and disgraced 
husband. Was I willingly so ? Did a word betray what I felt ? 
Could he know by that meeting that I loved him, that 1 would rather 
die for him and with him than live ?” 

“Not a word was spoken to be regi*etted. Grieve no more, Ruth, 
about the interview, 1 beg of you.” 

“ He will never know that I talk to the spirits around and about 
me of him.’^ 

“ What do you expect spirits to say of love P 

“ I ask them whether in that world far above the white domes and 
tall spires I shall meet him who frowned on me that day ? AVhether 
by laws of affinity, or by my undying love for him, or by his wife’s 
pollution and abandonment, he -will walk with me ? Does the knowl- 
edge I seek wrong Eunice ? In death — in the future — may he not 
be mine 

“ He might, if you do not get to loving the Doctor,” thought I. 

We are by the “ sad sea waves,” to obtain for Miss Ward “ change 
of scene, salt air and cheerful companionship.” (Patented advice 
for disease that baffles skill.) After the mandate we hurried off. 
We went by way of the Seine to Havre; crossed the Channel out to 
the Atlantic, stopping at one of the island resorts on the borders of 
a wild, land-locked sea, we found it in angry mood after its contest 
with the maelstrom that had swept the coast, leaving wrecks and 
wreckage upon the beach. The first sea strand that Ruth or 1 had 
seen we saw before sunrise. As far as the eye could scan were the 
foam-crested waves; seabirds were shrieking around the mast of a 
vessel’s wreck, lost years before. The morning sun cast no gleam 
on the white foaming waves. Seabirds flew before us, dipping their 
wings in the mad waves. Not far from us we saw a party of bathers. 
They kej^t another course. The route we had happened to take 
would be sought but by those who loved the sea for its grandeur, or 
who found in its soiTowful cadence a harmony with their own souls 
— some one toiiured with an inward strife, reckless as the angry 
waves. Ruth walked with me, always in the lonely way there. AVe 
gathered shells, we talked of home’ and of the troublesome Aubrey 
estate and of Grace, and for the first time she expressed an interest 
in herself, asking me, as if a sudden thought had come: 

“ In communications with our friends have you betrayed aught of 
my foibles in connection with Mr. Ethel 

I felt like a culprit as I replied: 

“ I have, to Miss Pierrepont.” 

“ ’Twere better you had written nothing of my life, but as Grace 
is my friend she will be chary of my good name.’’ 


BERENICE. 


307 


Our patient loves the sea. Tliat is natural ; beneficial, inasmuch 
as it keeps her out of doors. But to be alone on the strand after 
sunset, with the dashing and the roar of the sea is the ecstacy, the 
sublimity, the absurdity of, romance. Heights that a spinster can 
not scale, I, entirely dependent upon efforts in dress, sit m my robe 
de chambre, curling my haii* and bathing in soothing lotions my sea- 
maiTed, sun-browned face, while Miss Ward is by the sounding 
waves. It will be remarked, I tell her. She laughs at me. Natural 
enough is her reply: 

“ Walking by the sea! What more can they say of me V God 
made the sea and solitude for aU. Health is in every surge 1 In the 
wind that touches it, and comes to us with its spray, to crisj^ and salt 
up the skin. In this and all of this mighty element is hfe and health. 
Let them say, Ruth walks alone on the sea-shore after sunset. 
What harm is that V’’ 

We are still here. The benefits of the place to one of omr party 
are unquestionable. I draw this moment a picture tor you, or at 
least, I attempt to do so. We are often puzzled in word-painting to 
give the effect we aim to give. But let me assure you ot the “sub- 
ject in question being quite as fair as she was three years ago. 
Pshaw ! I have lost time and missed opportunity by dallying in my 
23remisings. She jDasses from the room. Instead of an original for 
my jiicture I shall have only a view, lessening each moment, a re- 
ceding figure, that breasts the strong western breeze, sweejjing o’er 
the sea, glimpse of fiuttering ribbons upon a broad-brimmed hat — 
the tout ens( ruble, a lady in white. How pure, how' rigid the cambric 
dress which she draws up to that exquisite throat of hers, asif’tweie 
hideous. I imagine the jrerfect little foot^^rints in the sand upon the 
shore of “ Blessed Island (so I have named our retreat). 

“ She did not resign her ^rrofession a day too soon,” I remarked 
to Dr. Wyatt, as he glanced at her through the open window, with 
longing eyes. 

“ I notice a decided improvement,” answered he, in a way that 
barred further ccmrnent. 

I persisted by saying: 

“ \Vhen she returns from her walks her buoyant stej^ and the glow 
of health remind me of cur Ruth of the jmst.” 

No reply. The Doctor was in dreams (of her I judged). How* 
ever, in justice to her 1 must declare my opinien of their future re- 
lationship an erroneous one. I A\as speculating rqxn the evils of the 
marriage of convenience, while the Lector had been in mind, if not 
in words, keeping up the thread of cur discourse. He said, alter I 
had forgotten the question of Ruth’s improved health, and of how 
the change impressed him: 


308 


BEKENICE. 


“ Yes, Fannie ; solitude, where we may get acquainted with our 
own natures, by research and reflection, and summing and sifting 
our motives, is beneficial to us all.^’ 

Irrelevant to his views I asked: 

“ Do you think it exactly prudent, or in good taste, for Iluth to go 
out so much, in a place like this, alone, as she does ? The evening 
has already advanced, vet I do not observe her on the road, return- 
ing.” 

After going to the window and peering out through the mists of 
twilight, he replied: 

“ Prudence means conventionality — arbitrary rules made by ty- 
rants. I shall not try to thwart her for — prudence. Let those who 
wonder at her infringement of the black code, look into her eyes. 
They will find an answer there. Let her quaff her elixir in any 
manner that pleases her best. She needs strength. Troubles will 
come. The skeletons she has helped to hide away will be brought 
forth. On every door of Mount Marah is set the ominous mark.” 

“ Who placed them there ?” 

“ The hand of doom. The laws of the land cry out for outraged 
justice. Unearth your dead !” 

“ I can not comprehend you,’’ I replied, trembling at his im- 
pressive tone, wondering why Kuth had kept her secrets from me. 

“ You shall see in due time,’’ he answered. 

Ruth had returned from her ramble, looking provokingly fail', to 
an old, faded woman, with her heart still young. Following his 
thoughts, I wondered if her eyes were really so good. I had not 
noticed it. I answer now, according to my belief. They are grand ! 
Incomparable ! You, of course, recollect them. A granite gray, or 
a glittering mist of gray over a blue groundwork. I have been 
studying them ever since he lauded them, and shall be forever. 
When half-veiling themselves with the white-veined lids, under the 
silky fringes in dreamy mystery, how beautiful they are. When 
they flash full upon you no dark eyes are capable of their effect. 
No treason, no concealment, no double-dealing in them. With their 
gaze upon you, you can have none. As to her hair, it makes one 
think of some golden sunset in the long ago, which left its dying 
love in a tinge, a halo of glory, upon the brown. Her features are 
classical, yet not altogether so cold and rigid as the Grecian stand- 
ard. Her head is proudly, nobly set upon a perfect throat.” The 
last remarks I quote from her ardent admirer. There is no flattery 
in it. Evidently, he has studied her looks well, from the tips of her 
shapely ears to the sloping of her throat, the waving of her hair 
upon her broad brow. He has the picture, ‘with another. He wor- 
ships them. He hides them away in silent ceUs of his heart. Is not 
the “ Pilgrim ’’ worshipping a marble Ruth ? What think you ? 


CHAPTER V. 


Like a star. 

Without haste, without rest 
Be eacli one fulflllinf' 

His God given ’best 

—Goethe. 

EXTRACTS FROM RUTH’s JOURNAL. 

He told me he had traveled night and day, through the perilous 
ways, to reach me, ere the wide ©cean would be between us. 

My voice was strange, even to myself, as I asked : 

“ Why did you endeavor to see me 

“ Neither your heart nor your memory tells you why 

“ My poor heart ! weary, overtasked. Shall it never rest ? Shall • 
it alwa3"sbe accused ? Always brought forth to be judged?” 

I am neither judge nor accuser. You know why I came. You 
know the question I came to ask.’^ 

“ I would be lost if I answered as you wish me to answer. God 
requires atonement for my loving you too long, too well.’’ 

“ God is merciful.” 

“ God is just as well as merciful.” 

“ He will not ask the sacrifice of two lives for involuntary sin. 
Can your reason give one clear idea of the good springing there- 
from ?’’ 

“ Reason ! I believe we can parley with reason until w^e get from 
it palliation for the deepest, darkest deeds.” 

“ I am a doomed man. I lose for you life, heaven. Have you 
the nght to make me so wretched that I can not bear existence. 
Have you the right to ruin me, body and soul ?” 

“ I am not the keeper of your soul. God has not made me so — ’’ 

“ Ruth, this’ is my last appeal to you. I shall not waste the few 
moments I pass with you in psychological debates. The w’ords you 
use as text for your incipient sermons were spoken inadvertently. I 
repeat them, now. ‘ I lose all for you; even life.’ But not as you 
may interpret. Many a man is compelled by woman to walk the 
earth dead to all purposes, aims and engagements. Such are the 
dead men who make our last hours uneasy ones.’’ 

“ What do you ask of me — to be happy over the wTeck of another’s 


310 


BERENICE. 


happiness ? even the waves, as I sit here by the sea, thinking 

of the days gone by, have in them a language, a voice of reproach 
to me. Sometimes I hear it as a dirge for one who died an outcast, 
the brand of sin burned into her soul. She was the victim of my 
weakness.'’ 

“ A few moments forgetfulness of our fate, then the agony of re- 
morse, the misery of our parting, without even a hope; for these, 
you accuse yourself?” 

“ I do. Clod will require atonement of me, and of you.” 

“ How you, as a weak mortal, shape and limit Clod’s retribution ! 
We should, to appease His wrath, cast away our blessings,, when 
within our grasp, because a weak and erring woman died in her 
sins ?” 

“ You speak heartlessly of Eunice. I wish you could think of 
her as I. I wish you had the memory that will haunt me through 
life. Oh, w’hy did you visit me, that dreadful day ? Why did you 
not let me live and die in my misefy, without giving me the pangs 
of remorse ?” 

“ Let us speak no more of what has been, but of what may be. 
The future is ours.” 

“ I cannot build upon the ruin I have made for another. There 
is no future for me.” 

“ Then I will seek you no more. Your heart has turned to 
stone.” 

“ You do not know my heart. You know not that the love of 
years agone, comes back to plead with me. Again arises between 
us the Avraith, the memory — waking, dreaming, I behold it — Eunice 
in her bloom, or Eunice in her grave. Shall 1 forget her ? Shall I 
say, ‘ down, pale ghost f What do you require of me ? Speak —I 
wUl consent. Let me not think !” 

I could not bid him go. But a long, long year was to intervene 
ere I could become his wife. Our interviews Avere to be kept secret. 
I desired them to be. I dreaded the comments of the world. Eric 
had become jealous and suspicious. His faith in me had gone. 

“ Does your preference for me concern your guardian ? Are his 
hopes thwarted thereby ?’^ asked he, sarcastically, or rather with 
jealous interest. 

“ Oh, shame ! You still believe the old story of Zillah’s. He 
finds in me a likeness to one lost to him in youth.” 

“ Let not your life resemble hers. Seize the cup when it is near 
your lips, lest you spill the w*ine upon the sands, leaving only a dark 
stain, to remind you of what you have wasted.’^ 

A challenge, either from himself, or from fate, thought I. 

“ Why choose the loneliest paths in your rambles ?’’ asked my 


BERENICE. 


811 


guardian, one bright morning, as he met me in the unfrequented 
haunts, where I had gone chiefly to escape him. Out of temper at 
the intrusion, I replied: 

“ I find no one to care for, no one to interest me; that is why I 
shun companionship.” 

“You regret your changed prospects? — the high aims you have 
resigned through my instrumentality ?” 

. “ I know not what I regret. I only know, through you I came to 
this solitude. I know, if I do not die of slow torture, I shall go 
hence. I suppose it is all for the best. So far, it does not strike me 
as being so. I take lessons of a great mistress, doctor. I look, as 
varied nature is busy, speaking in a thousand voices, of w'hat she 
has to do, while I am dreaming away my life. I had a copy once, 
and more than once, to w'rite. It read: ‘An idle brain is the devil’s 
work-shop.’ It is true — true to me. God did not create us to sit 
with folded hands. We have from life to death, our appointed task. 
My hands are folded, my footsteps stayed.’’ 

“The Master appoints our work for us. He will accomplish it 
in His own way. Be firm, be strong in purpose. Your discon- 
tent from your own mastery of it, will quiet down. Tbe waves 
which we now see seetliing, restless as your soul will, i)rese!itly, 
be still. Ah, Ruth ! Ambition in its death throes, struggles for 
life.” 

“Restless as my soul, the waves are. True, indeed ! We are 
toilsome waves of the great sea. We pass, leaving but a furrow 
to be smoothed out by Time — the hand that obliterates alike our 
joys and our sorrows. Even memory, the little furrow that poor 
humanity would have remain of itself, is doomed.’^ 

In reply to my reflections and comments upon our insignifi- 
cance, he said : 

“Will there be one to regret me, one little furrow left for 
a while to tell howl lived, and loved, and died V' My eyes fell 
before his gaze. 

“Speaking of ambition,” I remarked, changing the subject, 
which was becoming serious, or personal, “it is a faithless friend, 
a false prophet, with finger ever pointing to a goal which we 
never reach. Chaffering with us at the onset of our career, in 
])romises of compensation which it has not within its keeping. 
Ambition, love, all p.issions, all pursuits disappoint us. The 
settled and sealed sorrow, following regrets for our wasted lives, 
transforms our being. According to our natures or tempera- 
ments, we are cast either above or below the aims of life. In 
cither state we are wretched. After our transfiguration we find in 
our tame and passionless existence but one vivid feeling — the 
yearning for what we have lost.” 


312 


BERENICF, 


^‘It has been wisely said that ‘Only on the margin of celestial 
streams can we find simples to cure heartache.’ I give the idea 
as text. I cannot, however, i)reach upon it. It may be from 
want of practice.’’ 

‘‘We wander far ofi' for what is near. We only need to stretch 
forth our hands to gather balm tor earthly ills,’’ answered 1. 

“We never look upward until our earthly light has faded 
out, which it does too soon. We hope ; our hopes tind Iruition. 
We dream ; our dreams become tangibilities. Beings, loves, joys^ 
are ours, as we prayed. Yet we yearn still for something which, 
when attained, will leave the same void. No victory, won in the 
hardest strife, is prized long. We are sure of a pang for every 
heart-throb of joy. Every consummated aim or desire of life has 
its exceeding regret.” 

It was our last meeting. One year was to intervene ere he 
would come to Mount Marah. Unheeding the warnings of the 
weather-wise, I set out. I would keep my tryst. We met by 
the sea — there we would part. The dark, portentous cloud, hov- 
ering in the changing sky, grew in size and density, gathering in 
its sweep smaller ones, atoms scudding along as if there were a 
goal to reach in the distance. Now even to the horizon’s verge 
appeared a ground-work of inky blackness, wheriu the fiery pen- 
ciliings of the lightning traced sinuous and serpentine figures, 
which in an iuntant were lost to view, dashed out for others 
equally vivid, grand and wmnderful. The wind arose to tempest 
power. Jt pressed me onward to the sea. Terrified beyond ex- 
pression, I endeavored to reach a bold projection of the coast, 
hoping it might afford me shelter. Another refuge offered, tie 
caught me in his arms. I feared nothing then. Clouds of spray, 
waves of sand blinded us. The wind grew higher. We could 
not resist its power; onward and onward we went, nearer and 
nearer to the sea. In our efforts to return, breasting the gale, 
we realized the danger of our iiosition. Unless the wind shifted 
or abated we were lost. Still he bade me not fear. Catching up 
my wind-tossed, dishevelled hair, he pressed his lips to my fore- 
head, whispering, “Ruth, my own, my beloved.” 

“Yours 1 am, Eric, as 1 have always been, but what avails it 
now. See how near! Let us try to go on, to get away from 
that 

“We cannot move, but we will not be lost. Storms like this 
are of short duration. One hour more will be its limit. We can 
endure it.” 

“If it grows worse, what then 

“We are not to die ere we have lived, are we 


BEEENICE. 


Another wild sweep came, blinding ns again with the sand, 
forcing us nearer to the sea. He whispered as I clung to him : 

“Be calm. . I will save you.'^ 

My voice in its low wail, was lost in the storm’s wild fury. 
Fierce Hashes blinded us. Limpid fire writhed and twined round 
the mast of an old wreck which the rising waves had made ta 
ai)pear deeper set in the sea. At last the lull came, the storm 
abated. We were saved ! 

The pages of memory hold a vivid leaf — my storm picture. 
Yet there was one scene of that night to which 1 would only turn 
in sorrow. The wind died away to a low moan ; like the 
sobbing out of some great grief. We walked slowly homeward. 
The moon appeared as the clouds dispersed ; Ave saw by its light 
a human form lying upon the ground. It was Hr. Wyatt. 

We had a gloomy night in the house by the sea, for besides the 
dangerous condition of my guardian, Hvo of a party of p)leasurists 
had been drowned by the swamping of a boat. 

I had lost the friendsliip of Miss Pinkington. A scornful gaze she 
cast upon me as Ave sat beside niA^ friend. 1 asked why she blamed 
me for fatality. With terrible earnestness she replied: 

“ You are the deadly Upas, poisoning the ^iPure air. Why, in the 
name of your evil star, AA^ere you born 

I replied meekly: 

‘‘ I ask often, Avhy Avas I born ?” 

“Ah she retorted; “ to marry Mr. Ethel, at last, after bringing 
ruin upon Eunice, who loved you so well. When you have killed 
her you destroy also the noblest man God ever created.’^ 

“ He Avas, indeed, noble. But Avhile he is Imng let us not speak 
of him as one that was.” 

“ To save you, he Avent out in the storm. You were, in the mean- 
while, aAvaiting a lover. AVhy not act openly, declaring you would 
marry Mr. Ethel before Eunice was cold in her grave 

“ Because I only determined to do so upon the morning of the 
day of the storm. Would that I had died in it and he been spared.” 

Here I burst into tears, entirely overcome by the thoughts forced 
upon me of the probability of his demise. 

“ You need not grieve for hini,’^ she retorted; “ a"ou have a loA^er 
and a fortune. Nay, two fortunes in store for you.*’ 

“ Oh, God pity me said I, excitedly. Let him live that I be 
not accused of being his destroyer.” 

Strangely enough, at this moment he looked up. A faint smile 
seemed to reward my earnest prayer. I Avanted to scream or to 
laugh aloud, overcome AAuth the sudden joy. 

“Ho vou feel better?” asked I, tiwing to be calm. 

20 '^ 


4 


•314 BERENICE. 

He closed liis eyes without a word. Again I spoke: “Do you 
want anything, doctor 

“ No, Ruth.’^ 

“ He is better; he knows me exclaimed I. 

“ One sin less upon your soul.’^ 

To avoid retorting I passed out of the room. I asked of myself, 
.as I thought of what she had been to me — and what she was: Is 
there any tender, kindly feehng — anything below the all-engrossing 
and undying passion — that may not change, or falter, or perish, if 
tried too far ? Love is both god and demon ! How many wrongs 
are done in its name. The Mends I have lost by it ! The misery 
I have caused ! The tears I have wept for wrongs that I, nor time, 
nor death, nor naught but Heaven can ever w^ash a’way. 

“You need not grieve; you lose nothing by his death,’’ said Miss 
Pinkington, as we met beside his bedside. 

“ How would I gain by his death ?” asked I. 

“ Let me explain how,” she answered, leaving the room to return 
in a moment with a sealed package. 

“ Yesterday being the last of your minority, he busied himself in 
your interests. You will find no flaw, no legal hooks in this to hang 
jmssession upon. See your good Mend’s work. He has made you 
his heir. Take it. This is a will. Do you hear 

“ Eveiywhere is gold, gold, gold ! But I have other needs. If I 
were not the heir of Dr. Wyatt, if this formula did not exist you 
w’ould inherit his estates.” 

“ I would; but I do not want his property.” 

“Nor I. Fate is strong against me, but I can defy it so far. It 
can not make me mean or sordid. I gave my heart to Mr. Ethel, not 
Dr. Wyatt’s property.’’ 

The ^vill was no more to her than chaff. Shel^ept on taunting me 
about the sacrifice of it. 

“ You will have remorse for the rash act w^hen your estate has 
gone to another. Y^ou have destroyed the only hope you had of 
being less than a pauper.'’ 

Rising fi-om my seat I angrily replied : 

“ It is cowardly to taunt one so wretched as I. I pray to die; yet 
instead I am making gTaves for every one I love. I thought once 
y’^ou would never grow cold towards me.’’ 

“Not when vou kill one dearer to me than vou, I am not to grow 
cold?” 

“ He may recover. I pray unceasingly for his recovery. Do not 
look at me in that doubting wav. ITou doubt mv sincerity. I love 
Dr. Wyatt weU.” 

“ But Mr. Ethel more ?” 


BERENICE. 


815 


You would not wisli me to give the preference to Dr, Wyatt, 
would you ?” 

“ Since you have pried into iny secret thoughts you shall knoAV 
that I would rather make your shroud than your wedding garments, 
if you were about to be his wife.’’ 

Oh, Nemesis ! How* long the nights were with her, in her silver 
oiirls, sitting beside me. He spoke one word — one name. How I 
shuddered ! It w^as mine ! Yet withal, even to her, it was a wel- 
c,ome tone, the harbinger of his recovery. 

Sing for me, Ruth,’’ asked he one morning, as w^e w^alked on the 
beach, after Eric had left the island. ‘‘ We have this grand uproar- 
ing as an accompaniment to your voice.’’ 

Uproaring,’'’ echoed I. “ The mermaids and elf-kings would 
stand aghast and hang their hai-ps on coral reefs, dismayed at your 
liai*sh word, ‘ uproaring.’ ” 

“ Call it to please the sea folks and yourself; but do not forget 
%Yhat I ask of you, while contending for pretty words.’’ 

“ Nature’s grand refrain will not be heard for my poor piping.’’ 

‘‘ Any excuse rather than please me. Never mind then, don’t 
sing.’’ 

“ Your desire to come from the sublime to the real shall be grati- 
fied. I wiU sing. What shall it be ?” 

“ To harmonize with this accompaniment but a hymn. AVe lean 
heavenw-ard when w^e have need of a prop. In full health few of us 
feel the necessity of prayer. Let it be to-day a hymn by all means.” 

He stood wdth uncovered head, the breeze playing through his 
gi-ay locks, acknowledging the influence of my song-prayer. My old 
day-dream, the Pilgrim, was before me, with God-worship in his 
gaze; yet im* voice had evoked it: — homage higher than in my wild- 
est expectations I had dared dream of as mine. The dirge of mortal 
love came to him in the echo of the dying refrain, which seemed to 
linger lovingly around us. Cloud-rifts w'ere in my sky — ^blight 
spaces for angels to look through. Eyes faded with tears, closed 
long before, looked again into mine. A soiTow-chastened woman, 
the ah’ of mystery m her every movement, the religious cast, that 
serve to deepen and idealize it, arose before me, the Spuit of the 
Solitude — his youth’s love, his fancy’s blight ideal. AVould he listen 
to my suggestions ? I could but venture. I turned towards him to 
speak of the delights in store for him in a woman’s devoted love; 
but he was looking out to the sea, with the far-away glance — the 
glance that searches beyond the boundary of eaidh and waves and 
skies, into the mystic realms of the unknown. Let him dream on, 
thought I, as I folded the wings of fancy and drowned the voice of 
fact, and sat quietly awaiting an opportune moment for my stoiy. 


316 


BEKENICE. 


And there by the sea, with not a voice to recall me from my ram- 
bhngs, I traveled backward with bleeding feet over fields of lost 
treasure. 

The past brought me to the present. Fannie must not longer 
pine in spinsterhood. I would try to save her. Her good nature 
had entirely returned. Her air of quiet and placid resignation 
so well became her. How happy she might be, if — I almost 
despaired, when I uttered the momentous little word by which 
the fate of millions has been turned, either for good or ill. 

Yes, if he would think as I, she might be very happy. My 
revelation must not be deferred. I set about it. Beginning 
warily, I said: 

What a misfortune our coming here was.’’ 
began to think so myself, until my recovery was certain,” 
replied he. 

Something whispers, it may be for the best.” 

No answer. 

Would you like to know why I am almost sure of its being 
so ? ” 

“I would.” 

Well ! I know a secret, which I never could otherwise have 
known.” 

“ Am I to know it ! ” 

“ I think you should. Our friend, Miss Pinkington, has suf- 
fered very much during the last month. I thought she would 
lose her mind at one time.” 

“ Indeed ! ^That would have been au irreparable evil.” 

For which no good could ever compensate ? ” 

‘‘ None, that I can see,” he replied, with his far away look, as 
if he were trying to find the good. 

“We ought to have gone home when you first spoke of going. 
We might have averted all this trouble.” 

“ Can anything be averted ? ” 

Farther away I veered, as I replied : 

“ Then you think we are guided by an invisible hand, hidden 
behind a curtain which is never drawn back for us ?” 

“ Your subject would lead us into paths we dare not tread. If 
I were to be ill, which cannot be doubted — thank Heaven, I do 
not feel a bit the worse of my illness, only a little weaker. The 
air here will brace me up. By the way, I have news for you. 
Berenice, by leaving Mount Marah, has lost it sooner than she 
would have done. She has saved us a deal of trouble.” 

“ Where is she now ? ” I asked. 

“ At the city residence. We can do but little in that quarter. 
I hardly hoped, so readily, to get- her away from the Mount. We 


BERENICE. 317 

take possession as soon as we arrive. We should have been 
there a month ago.’’ (Another desperate assault.) 

You will live with us ? ” 

I cannot promise to do so. There would be conditions, under 
which I might.” 

‘‘If you do not promise unconditionally, I shall not stay a 
day at Mount Marah, and even then I will not live there for any 
time, unless Miss Pinkington concludes to be my companion.” 

You are fond of Fannie f ” 

Y^es, very. She has been uniformly kind to me, except in 
one instance, and then she was absolutely cruel.’’ 

Fannie has a good heart,’’ said he ; then, looking straight in 
my face, as if he had been struck by my last remark, he said : 

“I am surprised at hearing of her ever having been untrue to 
her promise to me % ” 

When you were sick, she was very, very cruel to me.’’ 

I waited nervously for the efiect of my words. He was imj)en- 
etrable. I continued ; 

“ So estranged she became that it nearly broke my heart. 
Every time she looked at you, when your life was uncertain, she 
made me half crazed, with the blame imputed to me, in her every 
word and look and action. That is how I came to burn up the 
will. I was actually goaded on, by her taunts, to do it.” 

Fannie is a foolish woman. So she made you suffer for what 
you could not prevent I An error of a weak and narrow mind.” 

She is not narrow-minded. Her views are exceedingly 
liberal ; at least, I have found them so.’’ 

“ Except in this case. There was no reason in her blaming 
you with the accident. You must have been mistaken in her 
sentiments, and have misinterpreted her manner.” 

I was not mistaken, but I think, or am sure, it was because she 
is so much attached to you. Doctor, her devotion to you, above all 
others, is remarkable. It impresses me deeply.” 

“How?” 

“ WTth the earnestness and nobleness of her character, and her 
deep affection for you.’’ 

“ Fannie always liked me.’’ 

“ Every one does, doctor.” 

. “ We like every one that is not — absolutel}’’ disagreeable to us.” 

“ True ; but Miss Pinkington has a stronger feehng for you than 
that weak word describes. I must be plain, doctor. She is very 
fond of you; she loves you.’’ 

“Tut, tut, tut; Fannie is a sensible woman.” 

(One more desperate thrust). 


318 


BERENICE. 


“ Miss Pinkington would honor any man by her preference for 
liim.” 

“ Wliat are you trying to do, Ruth ? You place Fannie in a ridic- 
ulous hght. She will not thank you.” 

“Dr. Wyatt,” said I, emphatically, “ m}^ friend honors you by her 
love. I am bringing facts before you. I am no match-maker.” 

He laughed rudely, heartil}^ making my efibrts a mere jest. This 
was my first and last attempt in Miss Pinkington^s behalf. Fannie 
never knew of my discomfiture in mat?ch-making. 


f 


CHAPTEK YI. 


('■OEKESPONDENCE OF MISS FANNIE PINKINGTON WITH MADAME CARDAYE, 

The homestead of the Aubrey family, by a will made in Paris, 
after the death of Piuth’s mother, was bequeathed to Kuth. B}" a 
clause, therein, Kuth w^as not to assume possession thereof during her 
minority. Of many wills made by Mrs, Gault, this alone, from its 
date, is beyond the possibibility of being contested. (The Lady of 
Mount Marah was not of sountl mind for years before her death). 

Thj’ough evidence given at the recent trial we have backward 
glances at the life of Mrs. Gault, and others who lived at Mount 
Marah. One of the witnesses — Marie — was a confidential servant 
or lady’s maid, who came with the family fi’om Paris, immediately 
after Victorine Aubrey’s marriage with Kudolph Gault. Her own 
words, at the trial, w^ould be better than any attempt of mine to ex- 
plain the circumstances of the unhappy union. She says: 

“ I first saw^ Miss Aubrey at the hotel. I w^as engaged there in 
light w’ork. I had w^orked at embroideiy, but my health ” 

“ Never mind the embroideiy and your health,” interupted the 
learned gentleman. “ MTiat of Miss Aubrey?’" 

“ Her father had just died. She was in trouble. M hen I went 
to her apartment to periorm offices that belonged to my calling, I 
made her feel, in some way, my sympathy for her.” 

“ You ventured to be familiar with a lady ? You offered your 
consolings to one so far above you ?” 

Marie flashed her eyes at him. 

“ We were both w'omen, both young. Poverty is not infectious^ 
A servant could pity her and pray for her, if she could do no) 
more.” 

“ What happened next ? How' did she become reconciled to her 
fate?’" 

“ There was in Paris a magician, - poAverful for any work almost 
to raise the dead.” 

“ You thought he might resuscitate her father?’’ 

“ I am not so credulous. But this man could alleviate all soitow'S. 
No person ever Avent to liim Avithout being light in heart after it."’ 

And light in purse, too, I suppose ?"’ 


320 


BERENICE. 


“ Of liis charges for services I know nothing. I never went to 
the house, though I pointed it out to Miss Aubrey.” 

“ Who advised you to take her there T 

“ Advice ! Indeed ! Everybody beheved in him. Since I think 
upon it, some one did, in remarking that Miss Aubrey was a wealthy 
heiress, urge me to take her where she could be made hapjiy by this 
friend of the soiToving.” 

“ How was she affected by this visit T 

“ She made .several visits. After the first and second she grew 
lighter hearted. I observed, then, that the third and fourth had a 
fearful effect. She told me she did not care what became of her.’^ 

“ Did she give anj" reason for being in this state of mind?” 

“ She told me the magician had gone into claiiwoyance. He had 
read the stars, too. The result of liis investigations was that one 
w'ho loved her had, during her absence, become enthralled '?vdth an- 
other, and appeared before her to ask forgiveness for the unpremed- 
itated sin.’^ 

“For what was the forgiveness Spitefully, bitterly, as one 
who had suffered, she replied : 

“Lack of love, treachery, inconstancy. Even her beauty and 
goodness could not hold reign in the heart of fickle man.’^ 

“What happened after this 

“Miss Aubrey became ill. One night she raved very much. 
A physician was called in. She was laboring under intense men- 
tal excitement, which threatened her reason.'^ 

“What next befell her?” 

“She recovered. Her illness had changed her very much- She 
again visited the astrologer, and more frequently than heretofore. 
She told me at last that she was to be married in a few days to a 
person she had met at the astrologers. Married, in mourning, 
too, without preparation, or eclat I I was indignant. I should 
have told her so, lady as she was, had I not bitten my lips while 
the words were on them !” 

“Why did you disapprove 

“A bride in black ! It was a bad omen ! I felt sure her mar- 
riage was one to be made in haste and repented of at leisure, 
like so many others.” 

“Did you ever see her affianced before the marriage 

“Once or twice, or perhaps oftener ; whenever he came to the 
hotel, I saw him.” 

“What was his name ?” 

“Rudolph Gault.” 

“What sort of man was he?” 

“Tall, dark, but handsome — wonderfully so.” 

-^‘The counsel will be pleased not to take up time with ques- 


BERENICE. 


321 


tions irrelevant to the case — the physique of a dead man. He 
cannot be tried for marrying, by fair or foul means, an American 
heiress.” 

“We wish to identify the parties and to show whether the man 
in question, was the husband who came to Mount Marah with its 
owner.” 

“It is not to be suiiposed that she had another husband, and 
palmed off this one on her friends.’’ 

Dr. Wyatt’s face flushed uj). His eyes rested on the ^eminent 
counsel” vindictively, who veered about instantly. 

“You said that Miss Aubrey’s manner led you to infer that her 
mind was not right.’’ 

“I said she acted wildly at times.” 

“How many times did she act so ?” 

“When she talked of what was about to be. I’he morning of 
her marriage, before she went to the church, she took me by the 
arm violently { she stared me in the face, saying almost fiercely : 
^Marie ! tell me what I shall do ? Tell me as a woman and as a 
friend !’ ” 

“Had she no friends in Paris f ’ • 

“Persons called on her but she would not see them.’’ 

“Go on with the story — the wedding day.” 

“She asked me, ‘Marie, had I not better die to-day V I re- 
plied, ‘Are you not to be a bride to day ?’ ” 

“But I loath this man. I have done so ever since I made up 
my mind up to become his wife.’’ 

“Why did you consent to marry him 

“I never did in my conscious moments, though they made me 
think I had done so. And to tell you the truth, Marie, I am la- 
boring under some delusion ; unholy, it must be, lor I cannot 
even i>rayTone little prayer.’’ 

“Does the gentleman love you, mademoiselle P’ 

“Assuredly he does 5 if he did not my conduct would be clear. 
His loving me hurries me to my doom. I dare not break the 
i)romise which they say I gave.’’ 

“You will learn to be fond of your husband, provided you love 
no one else. Are you sure that your lover was false !” 

“My letters were returned unopened. Of course that is proof, 
1 am sure.” 

“Make the best of it. Try to be happy.. Your husband, that 
is to be, is grand, magnificent ! You will at last love him. 
Nearly every bride, just as she starts’ to the churclq feels as you 
do. Get up all the fortitude you have. It is time. Look at the 
clock.” 

“Yes, yes 5 in an hour,” was her reply, with a shudder. 


822 


BERENICE. 


“Did she ever speak with regret of lier marriage as a inistakeu 
duty? Never deploring the step she had taken T 

“Never. She went about quietly, nearly, I imagine, like one 
in a trance. Her mourning dress gave her a look of deei)er 
gloom. She avoided every one.’’ 

“Did they live happily ? no bickerings !. no recriminations ?” 

“None. * The most perfect politeness of manner marked their 
intercouse in imblic. I think she feared her husband?” 

“Why do you think so ?” 

“She grew as white as the wall when she heard his footstep 
approaching. When he was gone there were some flashes of life 
in her.’’ 

“Were you living at Mrs. Gault’s when the children died 

“I was there with the first— the two who died within a few 
days of each other — but not with Winnifred.” 

“Were they intelligent children ?” 
thought them so.” 

“What disease did they die of ?” 

“I do not know.” 

“Y«u heard nothing ?” 

The opposing counsel, in a tone of derision, remarked, “We 
might as applicably ask for the gossip of the country at tea and 
quilting-Jparties for the last half century.” 

After some minute discussion the question was again put to 
the witness ; 

“Did you learn any particulars as to the cause of the deaths 
of Mrs. Gault’s children ?” 

“Zillah, who had belonged to the Aubrey family, and was still 
in their service, told me (in confidence, when I spoke to her of 
rumois among the servants of foul play and dark deeds that 
would come to light) that the children had been poisoned.’’ 

The opposing counsel argued “that a slave’s malicious lies 
could not be worked into proof, or taken in the case as evidence.” 

“Zillah was not a slave. Her words would go to prove that to 
obtain the Aubrey estate, by getting the heirs presumptive out 
of the way, has been the instigation. Every circumstance tend- 
ing in the slightest degree to throw light upon the case should 
be scrutinized, searched to the source. We are not losing time 
in hearing of a life, its idiosyncracies, any, all events of it which 
go to show whether she had not, as a responsible being, objec- 
tions to natural heirs, and strong reasons for making Miss Ward 
her heir instead of her step-daughter, as she had at one time 
concluded to do. I urge that we accei)t all testimony within our 
]*each, and rule out what is of no use.” 

“W^e have already had characters appearing upon the stand, 


BERENICE. 


82 a 

taking? up time, who have no more to do with the case than the 
Grand Sultana has to do with the Latter Day Saints.’' 

‘^One character has much to do with facts. I purpose asking 
lier two or three questions.'’ 

^^Marie, what did Zillah tell you about the causes of the deaths 
of the Gault children ?” 

“She knew them to have been poisoned.’’ 

“How did she know it *?’’ i 

“She purchased the poison in the city, believing it to be for 
beautifying a lady’s complexion.” 

“Did you ever reveal this to any one!" 

“Yes, to Mr. Gault. I thought it my duty to do so. The com- 
munication had a fearful effect upon him; though he professed 
to disbelieve the guilt of the person whom Zillah accused. The 
same diabolical agency is at work now in this suit. That deed 
was but the beginning of what we are to finish.” 

“What became of you after you had made this revelation to 
Mr. Gault f’ 

“I was advised to leave the country, and t>rovided with means 
to take my departure.'’ 

“ Who advised you thereto 

“ Mr. Gault.’’ 

“ You met Mrs. Gault after ?” 

“ In Paris. Oh, yes; after the fearful accident.’’ 

“ How was she then, in health, or rather in mind ?’’ 

“ A wreck. She reminded me of the day she was to be married, 
when she ai)pealed to me asking what she should do.” 

“ Did she know, previous to your seeing her, that you were in 
Paris ?’’ 

“No; there had been some imposition practised upon her about 
my leaving her service.’' 

“ Who was the poisoner, according to Zillah’s accusation 

“Berenice. Mr. Gault’s daughter by a former marriage.” 

The opposing counsel, in a flurried manner, said: 

“ A will o’ the wisp, that will not draw us after it. Some deep 
motive is at the bottom of this. If we were trying people for the 
murder, we might in sifting, find that this woman, for some diabol- 
ical motive, perhaps through some conceived injury, with A'engeance 
rankling in her heart, did the deed herself. How subtle the idea of 
hers in accusing one that woidd not be brought to answer for the 
Clime.’’ 

There sat Berenice. A look of supreme and fixed scorn upon her 
face, never casting her eyes around; never, by movement or expres- 
sion, contradicting the fearful charge against her; never, even by a 
look, apiu'oving the voice which defended her. After the first day 


324 


BEKENICE. 


oi the trial the Doctor told Kuth of the will made in Paris, which 
would make her, without possibility of contest, the owner of the 
homestead. 

“ Then why not have produced the will, and avoided the suit 
was the natural demand. 

“ Because I want what is yours by bequeathment and by right — - 
the entu’e estate of Mrs. Gault.” 

Buth, while listening, was the weariest looking being imaginable. 
The details are taken from a woman’s point of view. Jurisprudence 
is incomprehensible'to me and diy as dust. As far as I can under- 
stand, the codicil would be decisive, if the insanity of the testator 
did not quash it, as it does — all but the one made in Paris. 


CHAPTER VII. 


A sudden cloud came o’er the sun. 

And to the warm south wind a chill. 

And to my soul there came a thrill 
As of some nameless evil done. 

“ Perhaps you will forget,” I said. 

Such things have been, such things may be. 

?Jot always azure is the sea.— D. Da P. 

EXTRACTS FROM RUTH’s JOURNAL. 

“ There is little left for you but the walls,” said Dr. "Wyatt to me 
on my first visit with him. to my inheritance. 

“ Quite enough. I learned long ago to endure personal discom- 
foi-ts,” I answered. 

“ You will acknowledge, however, that you have .been robbed ? 
Nothing worth having is left but the family portraits,” rejfiied my 
persistent friend. 

“ How I wish she had taken them,’’ answered I, with all my heart 
in the words. 

“ VTiy ?’’ asked he in surprise. 

“ The eyes that follow me round the room seem to express aston- 
ishment at my being here, or perhaps at my pertinacity in contesting 
claims opposed to me, founded on the whims of a crazy brain.’’ 

“ You are foolish in your aversions,” remarked a third party. 
“ Especially so as to being the heii’ of Mrs. Gault. Without t)ie for- 
tune would you not be dependant upon friends ? You have resigned 
your profession.^’ 

Miss Pinkington’s truthful words called forth an angry retort : 

“ I may have views for m3" hiture, not as yet given out to be com- 
mented upon.’’ 

“ I meant onl}" land remonstrance in tiying to convince 3'ou how 
enviable 3"our jjosition in life had become to worldly e3'es.” 

Heartily ashamed of my petulance I softened m3" voice a little to 
say: 

“We Avill not quan-el about the old jfiace and m3' riches, nor of 
my idios3'ncracies, even if I can not think I am in an enviable posi- 
tion as 3"ou and others ma3" deem me. We all kiiOAAi the necessities'’ 
of our natures, and have our OAvn conceptions of justice, no matter 
what wiser judges tiy to teach us.” 


BEKENICE. 


:V20 

Dr. Wyatt had by this time returned from a peej) into the library. 
One glance therein had convinced him we were “ robbed in all quar- 
ters.” 

“ The hbrary was particularly specified in the will as yours/’ said 
he, indignant at the disposition. 

“ Of little service that will was when the house for months had no 
keeper. Berenice was with us in Paris, and you should remember, 
Doctor, the books were nearly all Budolph Gault’s, his name written 
upon them by his own hand in plain characters.” 

“ Let her have them then, and welcome. We want nothing that 
was his,’’ replied he. 

“ Most likely Mrs. Gault bequeathed them to me, thinking, in an 
indirect wav% of making them yours,” said I. 

“ Poor Victorine ! She tried to fulfill her duty towards a cold, 
cruel man, and, indeed, towards every one.” 

“ She disinherited his child for me, a stranger. Was that magnan- 
imous ?” 

“ Considering aU things, it was. You had been to her what his 
child nor no one else was.” 

“ I am then but a laborer worthy of my hme. I hate the Aubrey 
lands for many reasons: they made me meanly suspicious; they 
changed my whole life — ^joy to bitterness, confidence to distrust?” 

“ The part of the Aubrey lands which are yours deserve to be bet- 
ter thought of. Here in this quaint, old building Victorine was 
born; here was passed the best part of her hfe, and again, the worst. 
Many a life history might be written from Mount Marah’s walls and 
woodlands, could we hear the dead tell their stories.” 

I fully appreciated his views of my condition, yet I tried to explain 
and justify my own. • 

“ lliches are outre garments, which sit ungracefully in their pleni- 
tude upon the lowly. I am lost in tliis great house as its mistress ; 
and besides I can not think my claim to the place a just one.” 

“ Mount Marah is faiiiy yours. No one is cheated out of it. It 
was the least reparation Victorince could have made for your moth- 
er’s death.” 

“Reparation! Mount Marah for my mother’s life. Well, well!” 

“Your views are one-sided and erroneous. Wliat you receive was 
voluntarily awarded. Do you not read of suits for damages ? Golden 
salves for heart wounds — a purse for a life. 

“I read, and turn fr’om them in supreme disgust.” 

“ Bring reason to bear. Think. There is no sorrow among the 
poorer classes that gold may not soften.” 

“ There are sorrows which gold, heaped mountains high, could not 
soothe nor take away, not even from the poor.” 


BERENICE. 327 

% 

Dismayed at my interpretation of liis words, he said, with nostrils 
dilated like a spuited steed: 

“I meant to illustrate my subject, by convincing you how import- 
ant a poor man’s hfe might be. Other' lives are sustained by his 
labor; he dies by a casualty, or rather by the carelessness or reck- 
lessness of others. Damages should be awarded.” 

‘‘Mount Marah is damages for me — awarded by the Court of 
Conscience 

“No one can make you practical in your ideas.” 

“Am I not in this particular of the bequest, too practical to 
suit you 

“Let us be silent upon the subject, since we cannot think alike. 
Pray, tell me, are you going to live here a recluse — Heloise keep- 
ing away from Abelard, in her old abbey f What understand- 
ing did you come to with Mr. Ethel when you were eternally to- 
gether by the seashore ?” 

“I promised to be his wife a year henee.’^ , 

“A year hence! As usual with you; joys in the distance. 
Wliy have you not settled the question before ? You have gained 
nothing by refusing to obey the desire and impulse of your 
heart 

Truthfully and self- upbraiding, I said : “I dare not sum ui> 
the evils. Be assured I am fully conscious of them.’’ 

“Evils ! You know not of many evils that came through you. 
Let me tell you a story of a life blighted at its close, as at its 
zenith. Shall I 

“Give me no insight into what I know not of. The life and 
death of Eunice is enough, God knows.’’ 

“You must hear. You will ? It is so littfe to ask ” 

Words of a sad and solemn truth were spoken. He tried to 
ripple them out into a vein of pleasantry, but he could not. He 
began with considerable embarrassment.” 

“I-am about to make myself ridiculous. After confession (my 
penance you ijronounced weeks ago) I think I shall feeLall the 
better.’’ 

“What was the penance f ’ I asked. 

“Benedictine orders you would have placed me under, chains 
to bind me. Worn for you, however^ I would not have consid- 
ered them chains. The truth is you have long been aware of my 
feelings toward you. I love you because you bear to Victorine 
a marked resemblance. In face and manner you bring her 
constantly before me.” 

“You imagine so. I was never thought to resemble her.” 

“When 1 speak of a pale and erratic lady of mature years. 


828 


BERENICE. 


with unnatural ways and morbid fancies, she does not seem to be 
like you. Neither was she like the love I lost in youth.'^ 

“Of course not. We change so much, and first impressions are 
lasting.^’ There was no respite. He continued the painful sub- 
ject : 

“In meeting you, after a wasted life, I forgot my years. A 
hope misled me. I can tell 30U now of my folly. Now when 
hope is gone.” 

“I never tried to deceive you. I thought you knew that Eric 
Ethel’s image was set inefi'aceably upon my soul. Surely you 
have not all these years mistaken me.” 

“You never mteled me. Y"et one’s hopes will do so, and often 
cruel facts stare us in the facej a recklessness coming from dis- 
appointment, goads us on, to make the innocent cause of our suf- 
ferings, suffer with us, as accomplice in our misery. Still I ac- 
quit you of all blame, and will never refer to the subject again.” 

“It must be painful to you as to me, and it is of no avail, since 
I love another.” 

TJnreciprocated passion should be stifled in its incipiency, for 
if love, the diamond of the soul, be lain at our feet, when it can- 
not be our crown jewel, we crush it or cast it away as the mean- 
est trinket. 

***** * ***** 

In this apartment I spend many hours ! How familiar the spot ! 
This room was the ark of refuge. Here I first began to question 
my heart as to its interest in a name, a voice, a footstep ! Once 
I thought this a gorgeous apartment. I know I did the evening 
when I stood by the old tarnished mirror, looking at myself in 
ruffles. 

The limbs are lopped off the old oak where the robins lived. 
The dismemberment causes a tale-telling, searching glare, pain- 
ful to one in sickness and sorrow. 

Welcome friends of the past! Here is “Robin Hood and his 
merry ^leu.” St. Theresa, whom I thought so fair, is hideous as 
an ogre. 

Ah ! here is the window where Berenice came with stealthy 
step and malignant purpose, and frustrated her husband’s skill ! 
The old fire-places, modernized, have not the wide cheery 
mouths to delight one in the wintry nights. 

I have chosen another room, to have a view of the eastern 
gate, and of the line of white oleanders where the faires scatter 
their diamond spray. How beautiful is the mysterious cloud- 
mist that rises above them through the iiertumed air ! 

The year draws to its close ! (I have the day and date of his 


BERENICE. 


329 


coming.) ’Twill be April j orange, myrtle, jessamine, pride of 
China, honeysuckle violets, will all be in bloom. 

***** ## *#** 

I dreamed last night I was hice to face with the dead. What. 
wild fantasies possess me, dreaming and waking ! Why should 
I dream of Rudolph Gault? Wierd voices come down the aisles 
of Time ! Shadows in the grey light pass slowly and mournfully 
before me,' taking forms of the dead. I know they are fantasies, 
even while they make me cower and tremble, and close my eyes 
to shut them out. I roam the woods. I seek the shelter of the 
groves, where Eric and I wandered in the olden time. Birds 
nestling ill the thick forest, sing their songs; insects hum in the 
grasses. I love nature from the teniest atom to the rythm of the 
sea, the dirge of the forest, the coming of the day. The throb- 
bing of its never slumbering pulses I hear in the wmod em- 
bosomed stream, in the lily cups swaying in the breeze, in the 
roses, in the ferns that cast their tapering points into the still, 
cool waters. Impartial Nature ; scattering its beiiizons broad* 
cast! Flowers bloom alike tor all, from the “Lord ot an hun- 
dred Isles,’’ to the beggar at his gate. 

IMouiit Marah’s breezes are redolent with odor, as when the 
Aubreys wandered in the sultry eves to catch their sweetest 
kisses. The trees give me their shade ; the birds chant their low 
murmurs. Nature’s voice is sweet as the angel song in my 
dream. The woods, the waters and the clouds ! How well I 
know their changing moods. I have grown up with them. Sol- 
itude was to me my mothers presence. My soul wandered in 
forbidden ways when it found the i^ath of fame, where it diverged 
from love. The lurid light led me to darkness and woe. 

*** ****** 

My lord 1 my king! comes. How will he come? My pano- 
ramic view of our meeting, with Mount Marah in perspective ! 
How glorious ! How perfect it is ! When the evening sun is 
on grove and forest ; when its w^arm kiss lingers on the tops of 
the trees, and mingles with the glimmering mist, rising c as a 
nebus or halo over the white oleanders. And I will bound out to 
meet him. Ah ! I have a maddening memory ! It came of ray 
joy. Eunice! I see her plainly, as she ran down the walk, in 
the shade of the poplars, to meet her husband. No, no; I pray 
that our meeting be not in the evening by the setting sun I 
Aaway, sad thought ! Down, pale ghost ! I must dream on. 
My knight will ride up to my castle gate ! He will not lift his 
vizor until he is in the home of his love. But then I shall know 
him. There is not another form like his in the world. 

The morning which will bring him will rise bright and clear 
21 


330 


BEEENICE. 


I will pass down the ailes of flowers, and my dress will brush 
the dew, for 1 must walk in state, even if my robe needs trail the 
dust. I shall be so humbled, and yet so high ! I will, with my 
own hands, let down the bars and welcome the wanderer home. 

I have another fancy. It will seem but a day, pause of a few 
hours, a hush in the sweet suspense.” I am not changed so 
much. I shall be only a few months older than now. ’Twill be 
as if we both traveled to one bourne by difterent ways. I will, 
to make up the illusion, dress as when we parted by the sea, and 
he stooped to kiss only my brow. Our last kiss was cold and 
distant, because I told him we wronged her. 

5lJ sK * :fc ^ 

My harp studies are resumed. Twenty times a day I sweep 
the chords. I have written words to sing, and made new music 
to sing them by. When and how will he come ? I have waited 
long. Had he loved as I, the gulf of sin and sorrow had never 
been between us. He married. I dare not dwell upon that 
thought. 

*»****#*♦ 

1 went to-day to the spectral room. Grace was with me. How 
vividly came back the last scene with Eric Ethel ! We opened 
the escritoire. In showing her the drawer with the secret spring 
a case of jewels came to light. Opals ! I knew in an instant 
they were the ones the Lady of Mount Marah had* spoken of as 
being mine, the day before her death. I had often searched for 
them. Further exploration brought forth light to make clear the 
murky and mysterious past ot a woman’s life. How faded ! how 
faint the lines that tell of old days and the life at Mount Marah 
— the life of Yictorine Gault. 


CHAPTER VIIL 


Deep, deep, deep. 

Quickly, so none should know. 

I buried my warm love steathily. 

Under the winter snow. 

I kissed it tenderly. 

Just once for the long ago ; 

Then shrouded it with your cold, cold words. 

Colder than all the snow ! 

— Peael Rivees, 

EXTRACTS FROM THE DIARY OF THE LADY OF MOUNT MARAH. 

The Garden of Gethsemane I A wonderful work ! my hus- 
band says, as he dwells upon its excellencies with an artist’s ai>- 
preciation. 

See Yictorine,’’ said he, even in the agony the Godlike cast 
of the uplifted face is maintained.’’ 

I had a foolish recoiling when I beheld my bridal gift — the 

Agony of the Garden.’’ My spirits sank Avithin me. 

The painting is by one of the great masters,” remarked Ru- 
dolph, as he observed my disappointment. 

It may be,’’ said I ,* “ but it is so sad! You know I cannot 
look upon it with your eyes, as a grand painting. I think only 
of the subject.” 

I thought of your religion. It would be a treasure to the 
church. Give it to your confessor.’^ 

My Rudolph ! Give away your gift? Mo, no ; I would have 
preferred a pretty pasture, with green fields and running brooks 
and meadows flecked with sunshine, or even torrents pouring 
down mountains that reach the purple clouds. You guess rightly 
as to my jAreference. I am fond of picturesque scenery.” 

Y’^ou like fair faces and happy scenes ; subjects that do not 
touch the depths of the soul nor reveal the painter’s powers. 
Parhassius, which we saw yesterday, is a grand, a glorious 
work ” 

“ I shudder when I chance to think of it.” 

Subjects which you recoil from with a puerile, womanly tim- 
idity, embody the poetry, the soul, the sublimity of Art.” 


% 


332 


BERENICE. 


All, Eudolpli, I wish I could look upon pictures and people 
w ith your eyes. Perhaps I shall after awhile.’’ 

* #. 5 ): * * # * # 

This singular man, my husband, woos me with pictures of tor- 
ture, agony and death ! He speaks to me always of the dread 
realities of life. He crushes the web-work of fancy in his giant 
grasp. Ee gives me the dregs of the sparkling, beaded wine; 
calling the draught world-wisdom. How bitter it is! So soon 
a wife must lose her individuality, remodel her tastes, merge her 
life in another. Natures, that prove as oil to water, try to mingle. 
My bridal gift is before me. How sad a picture ! There is noth- 
ing in the surroundings cheering to contemplate. The view of 
the outer world, which my window affords, gives strange streets, 
strange faces, sounds of strange voices, which bring to me no 
pleasure. My husband’s face is stern and cold. 

Memories of old flit along my mind. Their places and their 
people pass between my gaze and the picture. I see brilliantly 
lighted apartments ; I hear sweet strains — melody and revelry! 
White robes, orange blossoms, jewels that flash like stars at mid- 
night in the ebon darkness of silken hair ! A vision of Mount 
Marah ! a bridal party ! a dream of the past, when old heir-looms, 
diamonds and pearls of buried and forgotten grandams, were 
brought out. Another cycle in the gay world for them. Wind- 
ing round white arms, resting upon the warm, breathing forms 
of the loving and loved! nestling upon fair bosoms, or lying, 
waiting for admiration, among the bridal gifts for the happy 
bride. Had this picture been in my Tvorld at such festive seasons, 
Twould have been shrouded in flowers. 

Mount Marah is changed ! Rudolph is the ‘‘new master.’^ 
father was beloved by the slaves. I fear me, the putting on of 
the ^‘dead man’s shoes*’ to walk Mount Marah’s grounds will be a 
thankless undertaking for my quiet, ease-loving husband. I told 
them to be faithful to him as they had been to my father. They 
answered by sullen and discontented looks. 

Sometimes I have a feeling of hate for Rudolph. It surges up 
suddenly like the dark and malignant blood that follows the click 
of the lance. I know not how to judge him. I run over, in my 
mind, the circumstances of our meeting. I cannot fathom the 
secret, whether by casualty or design I fell into the snare. Shall 
I call it my destiny, or my inveiglement? Was Rudolph an 
abettor of the devices of the vile impostor? 

The room with the Garden of Gethsemane is my refuge, my 
strong tower, where I, with inward sight, look out upon the sea 
of life, bleak, stormy and rockbound. Many wrecks of human 
happiness there are, far and near. Many vessels on life’s treach- 


BERENICE. 333 

erous waves are lost, for want of land-marks — lights ahead to 
warn and save them. 

Zillah tells me, while shee looks into my tace with an inquiring 
gaze, that she meets my old ‘‘sweetheart’^ in the city, and she 
wonders why he does not ask for me. I fear to chide her ; I fear 
to reply } for a woman reads a woman. (live her but a leaf or 
word of her heart’s book, she spells it out to the end. How 
cruelly, how mercilessly they bare the wound ; aye, and probe 
it, too. 

I pray one prayer, the prayer every unloving wife should ever 
pray. I would not meet him. His face would fix itself deeper, 
Ijlainer, in my memory. At the gates of J3oom that face will 
come to turn me back from Heaven ! 

I have heard his voice! My heart thrilled at its music ! I was 
to blame ! 1 listened to his x)leading8 for the love already his 

I was thinking of him when he appeared suddenly beside me. 
I wanted to say words that, as Rudolph’s wife, I might speak 
without shame. They mocked his misery. 

“I did not want to see you, George, in our altered relationship,” 
said I. He did not answer other than in his sorrowful, angry 
gaze. “Speak to me, George,” I pleaded. 

“Let our interview end, if it please you Mrs. Gault. I am one 
whom you should avoid and hate.’’ 

“Do not speak that cruel word — hate! Hate you*? Never!” 

“Oh ! I forgot you pity and respect me ! Perhaps you would 
promise to think of me as a friend ? Indeed, most faithful lady, 
1 do not ask so much. Your recollection is worth a soul’s ran- 
som ! See what your recollection, your faithfulness has made 
me. You weep ! You are trying to still the voice of conscience. 
You are trying to cast the sin upon effects, over- leaping causes. 
You are trying to say, ‘Drink brought him to this.’ ” 

“You mistake my thoughts. I own my sin. I brought you to 
what you are. Spare me! Say nothing,' ask nothing of the 
past !” 

“The past is mine, as it is yours. 1 have a right to read it word 
by word. I have a right to know why you married Rudolx)h 
Gault.” 

“I do not Justify myself. I acted badly, but I suffer. Do not 
judge me harshly; you do not know all.” 

“Though you have been my ruin, I am to believe that you were 
compelled to be so. You betrayed me, yet I am to think you 
meant well by so doing “?” 


384 


BERENICE. 


^^Cousider how hopeless my future life must be. There is not 
one gleam of light for me in the long, long years.” 

“Your preference for me was a clearly defined i^assion, was it T 
No girlish caprice, that passed away in contact with the world 

“The most subtle persuasions would never cheat me into such 
belief. I loved you too well to doubt the fervency of my attach- 
ment.” 

“How strange ! You loved me, but you married another.’^ 

“Doubt me if you choose. 1 am sure you have every reason to 
do so.” 

“There is, I have heard it said, a love that flashes up like me- 
teors, to die out as suddenly. It was one of these erratic pas- 
sions that came over you in Paris ?” 

“Alas ! alas ! neither love nor passion brought my doom.” 

“You deepen the mystery, Victprine. What I seek to know I 
will know, or here, by your side, I stami) upon your soul a fear- 
ful recollection for the coming years — a ghastly memory of the 
man you always loved."' 

With a desperate cast I threw the highest stake when I ex- 
clailned : “I am a wretched woman ! What causes my misery f 
Am I not changed ? You think only of your own grief ! Look 
at me! Do you remember what I was?” 

“Too well ! oh, woman ! too well !” 

“I offer to you, for the wrongs I have inflicted, the holocaust 
of a broken heart." With eager and questioning look he 
awaited further revelations ; I continued : “I have said too much. 
I pray you, if you ever loved me, ask me nothing more. Let me 
depart.” 

“Not if Gault stood before me and bade you go with him* 
should you leave me. He has no right to you.” 

“Not when I am married to him ?” 

“True, true, you are his wife. Yet, withal, you are mine. A'ou 
must save me ! You will ! How can you bid me die at your 
feet?” 

There was the old, sweet tone, the old gaze from the earnest 
eyes.^ Love stood pre-eminent in its power and majesty. A 
tearful ordeal was it for a wife, compelled to acknowledge her 
fidelity to a passion which honor, justice and reason demanded 
of her to overcome, or to accept the alternative — to seal his 
doom. In an instant my resolution was fixed. I had brought 
him to the abyss ; I would lead him back. Defiantly to Gault 
and to fate, I said : 

“I will die with your name on my lips. 1 live with your image 
in my heart. Know you not, by your own soul, that love is eter- 
nal ?” He caught my trembling hands ; he pressed them to his 


BERENICE. 335 

lips with an eagerness that alarmed me. I summoned up forti* 
tude to say : 

‘‘George, understand me fully ” 

“I do ; you love me 

“True ! alas, too true V’ 

“You hate Gault. I would rather die than yield you up to him. ' 

“After this day we meet no more, except casually, in the world,, 
with other eyes upon us. 1 laid bare my heart, trusting in your 
honor, your sense of right to aid me in fulfilling my duty to my 
husband.” 

“1 to aid you ! I, the weaker one ! Oh, Victorine ! to what 
you have brought me ! Why did you blight my life, and with it 
your own V 

“I cannot tell why. I onl}^ know that our paths are separate. 
Let us bear our lot bravely, patiently. To all sorrows there is an 
end.” 

“Yes; in the grave,” said he. The soul of my victim waa 
moved beyond his strength. He knelt at my feet pleading : 

“My lost earth-love ! Come back ! You are mine, since you 
love me.” 

“Do not let me prove you in thought, or deed, lower than what 
I once knew you to be.” 

“ There is nothing noble left of me. I am dej)raved, lost.” 

“ You cannot avow that you have no abhorrence of dishonorable- 
deeds. You are noble still. You can forgive. Forgive me, 
George.” 

“ What 23unishment would you sj)are me if I married another — 
one whom I did not love ?” 

“ Conscience and memory are merciless avengers.” 

“ It is sinful, you think, to wed without love ?” 

“ Infidelity of the soul ? Ah, yes.” 

“ You are guilty of this ! He knows you are.” 

“ I hoj^e not. I use every endeavor to hide my aversion.” 

“ Then you are the betraj^er of tw^o who have trusted you.” 

“ I stilve to love my husband. What would j^ou consider right ? 
Truly the tluty are, to my weak judgment, intricate. 

Should I (hive him to some desperate act of frenzy by telling him 
Avhat I feel ?’’ 

“ No; be careful of his haj^jnness. You were so tender of mine.” 

“ How^ cruelly you taunt me.” * 

“ Would you not be a better, a truer woman if, scorning a hfe of 
deception, you clung to one wiiom you love and who loves you ? 
You are living out a lie with tliis husband of yom’S.” 

“ Abandon my husband ! Make him a target for the arrows of 
pity, which wound deej^er than even scorn ! Such a deed Avould be 


33G 


BEKENICE. 


monstrous. I liad better get some subtle poison, mix it with liis 
wine, and wind my arms about him while he drinks it. This would 
be mercy to what you propose for him.^’ 

“ Then you believe that he loves you ?” 

“ Why, yes. Do you doubt it ?” 

“ They speak of your fortune always with your marriage.” 

“ My fortune ! How wicked j^eople are. It is a wrong, a great 
wrong, to Mr. Gault.” 

“ I wish it were true; you might give it to him and be free. Vic- 
torine, let me speak plainly. Cast away pride, brave public opinion 
for me. As to Gaidt’s anger, what of it ? I do not fear him, nor 
need you, with my protection. You are mine. Speak ! Give me 
hope ! Darling ! darling ! save me !” 

“ Oh, George, you would tempt me ? Y^ou would sully my name; 
you would place in glaring characters, through highways and by-way 
in all lands, Eudolph Gault’s false wife ! Selfishness, not love, asks 
this sacrifice. Love exalts its object. Noble women have borne our 
name. My mother told me once that there was not a stain upon it. 
I shall not cast the first blot upon the pure record.” 

“ Love sacrifices all things for its object. A vague and distant 
recompense for piide of lineage you will have in the life before you. 
The deception you practice Avill not always cheat him into belief, 
nor will it bring you forgetfulness. Mark me, Victorine, the jfiay 
W’ill not content you.” 

“ It will not. I know it. Yet I must suffer on. It is the sin more 
than the world’s opinion that I care for. Urge me no more, in 
heaven’s name, and never thinlc, after this hour, when I bid you 
leave me forever, that I am not capable of sacrifice. Mr Kedeemer 
suffered not more than I do noAV.” 

“ In your creed there is nothing Avritten of mercy ?” 

“ God Avilled that I should be no more than what I am. An un- 
loving wife need not sin in deeper, grosser ways.” 

“ Cold reasoner ! Gmng me exhortations upon propriety w'hen I 
need your love. I endure this? Victorine, you ask too much 
of me.” 

“ The truth must be told. Listen ! In the frenzy of slighted 
loA’^e I maiTied Mr. Gault. Hearing that you had forsaken me, I 
knew not Avhat to do. I was in a strange land. Everything was 
against me.” 

“Did he say that I Avas false ?’’ 

“No; but another did. Let me explain how it AA*as. Mr. Gault 
knew nothing of our engagement, but, unfortunately, it Avas no se- 
cret. The demon AAho deluded me, knew it.” 

“ Whom do you allude to ?” 

“The magician; one Avho moulds x^eople to his Avill: one Avho pre- 


BERENICE. 


337 


tends to know our tliouglits. After my father’s death I was per- 
suaded to visit liim. There I met Mr. Gault. You never wrot e to 
me a word to save me.” 

“ A plot. The motives are plain. Yet you hesitate to abandon 
him who has proven himself to be an unscrupulous foi*tune hunter.” 

“ My husband had no thoughts so sordid. I am fully convinced 
that he was the dupe of another.” 

“ You are ready with excuses for him. Well, well, that is natural 
enough, he is your husband. Go your way, Victorine. God forgive 
you, woman.” 

“ You forgive and jhty me,” said I, kneehng with clasped hands 
before him, my whole frame convulsed with deep and Avild emotion. 
He looked into my eyes for a moment. In that glance was a history 
of hopeless and despairing passion; but the good, inherent, insepar- 
able from his nature, struggling with desfre and conflicting thoughts, 
came nobly out to save us. He touched my forehead with his white 
lips. He spake not a word. The silence, the action and the linger- 
ing, loving gaze was our farewell. My lover resigned me to my hus- 
l>and. 

, ^ ^ (S 

The woman in her gi’ave, wliohf I thought~sb^veak (^ purpose, 
standing firm in her purity behind the narrow shield of duty, fight- 
ing out the battle with impulse which I had lost. How low I sank 
in comparison when I thought of my interview with Eric Ethel. 
Taking up again the record I read to the end, seeking to find in an- 
other's weakness palliation for my own. Surely, thought I, Victorine 
and her old lover met again. 


CHAPTER IX. 


Here we find rest ; here where the pale, wild ^dolets sleep ; 

Here where this chasm yawned, that was so dark and dread and deep ; 

Here where the sounds of the great human sea sweep litful in. 

And men, with supple tread, pass on, still on. amid the din. 

Unheeding of the single wave that sweeps the dark headlands by. 

To join the white phantom-billows of the dread Eternity— 

’Tis but a grave, this chasm. I shudder not, nor weep, nor shrink, 

In dread and loathing. Neither of torpor nor decay 1 think ; 

Hut of the still hands, folded in their first, true rest, • 

Father, Thy last great blessing and Thy high behest. 

—Queen of Hearts. 

EXTRACTS FROM THE DIARY OF THE LADY OF MOUNT MARAH. 

I wait for Rudoli^li^s return as I do for the daj^ to wane, for his 
horse to appear in the windings of the road, as for the sun to sink 
behind the horizon, because both are sure to be. Day biings night, 
and the steed biings back its rider. There are the stars, but there 
is no light for me in them as lieralds of my husband’s return. Tliere 
is no light in Heaven to make night hoi}", yet I will not complain. 
My prayer is heard. He is saved. For me ’twas written ere 1 saw 
the light: “ Victorine shall be led to the altar, bound with cruel 
cords, and no angel voice come to stay the uplifted hand.’’ \Yhat 
though I was a passive victim, the pang that kills is none the less 
keen. What though my nerveless hands were meekly folded, still 1 
die. Yet I, for many a day, have been reconciled, believing for a 
Avise purpose I became Rudolph’s ^yi^e. He returns to-night — Eric 
Ethel. The bright inner lining of Rudoljdi’s cloud will be Avith 
liim. When indifference or aversion sits in gloom, spectral and si- 
lent at the hearthstone, Ave long for the tertiate and tabooed number 
to disperse the gloom of fireside Lares that come, despite of us, when 
Ave sit face to face in the long, di-eary Winter nights, each knowing 
the hunger and the dearth in the other’s heart. 

Ah, they come ! By the dim tAvilight ag^nst the line of trees I 
can fancy them knights of the Middle Ages, renowned in love and 
chivalry, for Rudolph is no less a one than Richard the Lion-hearted. 
What a superb pair they are ! Rudolph, though the elder, is the 
handsomer. I think if tliere had been room for him in my heaiT he 
might have entered it long ago and rested securely. Hoav well he 
sits his black steed ! I put aside my journal I go to meet me 


BERENICE. 839 

husband. Many a woman, fairer than I, would be proud to writy 
that word of Rudolph Gault. 

In solitude I run over the day’s events. This morning my hus- 
band came with hurried step to this room. Every unusual sound, 
the quickening or lagging of a familiar footstep, the change of a 
voice, aye, even a gust of wind sets me to trembling. When we sin 
what perplexities our nerve system brings to us. Since my fatal 
manlage, I am a slave, under the dominion of nerves. He came to 
ask for restoratives; a gentleman had just been thrown from his 
horse. 

“ It is Dr. Wyatt, he continued, “the person to whom I intro- 
duced you the other day. He is a clever fellow. I fear he may be 
seriously injured.’^ 

My faint exclamation, and the sudden pause for want of power to 
move, together with my look of dismay, drew his attention. We 
were descending the stairway; he caught me to keep me from fall- 
ing, sa^dng, with a smile: 

“ A faint heart you have. You would make a poor nurse for a 
frontier hospital.” 

I rallied, and in a moment went on with Rudolph to the hall. Dr. 
Wyatt Tvas IGng on a couch. 

“ He is quite ccJld,” said Zillah, looking, as she spoke, at me inquisi- 
tively. I did not dare approach him, lest by some unguarded word 
or impulsive movement I might betray an unwarrantable interest in 
the sufferer. 

Berenice moved about him in a mechanical way, showing no 
anxiety and certainly feeling none as to the result of his injuries. 
Her voice aroused me from the stupor of soitow. 

“ Ai*e you praying for him ? ’ she asked mockingly. “ Ah, you are 
a coward, rna mere ’' 

“ I ! What do you mean, Berenice 2.” 

I trembled while awaiting her rej^ly. She spoke clearly and em- 
phatically : 

“ Had he who lies there been my lover, neither God nor man, un- 
less I were struck dead, could keep me from him.” 

Roused from my abject and stupef;>dng fear, I replied defiantly: 

“ I am your fathers wife. I dare do no more than look at him.^’ 

“ His wife ! Do you call it wifely to love another before marriage, 
and keep his memory in your soul afterwards? He is d}dng. Foolish 
woman ! you will regret keeping up the decej)tion.” 

“ What deception ? I have been only too truthful in my manied 
hfe. Could I have been less so, and played my part, Twere better 
Tor both.” 


340 


BEKENICE. 


“ You are playing a part. You would make my father believe lum 
to be a stranger to you.” 

The color mounted to my temples. I would brave her and Eu- 
dolph, too. I motioned him to a2:>proach near enough for me to say : 

“ Dr. Wyatt is not a stranger to me, as you have been led to be- 
lieve. He is an old and dear friend.” 

He gave me a look of surprise. A questioning expression suc- 
ceeded. Making no reply, he returned to Dr. Wyatt. With folded 
arms he stood looking at him Avith a strange scrutiny. I kncAv that 
Zillah had told the history of my early life to Berenice. 

Signs of vitality appeared in the suferer. I returned to niA^ soli- 
tude, resorting not even to glance again at him Avho had been once 
so dear to me. After he left the house Eudolph came to me, very 
pale, very stern and hoUow voiced. 

“ I presented this man to you some weeks ago, as a stranger. You 
recoUect the circumstance, madam ?” 

“ Perfectly Avell,’’ answered I, indignant at his severe tone. 

“ You acknoAA'ledged the introduction with a formal greeting. 

“ Yes; I recollect that I did so.” 

“ I did not believe you capable of deception.” 

“ Was it imperative upon me to tell you that he was an old 
fnend? Am 1 amenable to you, Mr. Gault, for my friendships, 
their fluctuations and final subsidences or consequences, preAuous to 
my marriage ? 

“ You are not amenable, nevertheless I am convinced that there is 
a covert cause for your keeping your friendship with Dr. Wyatt a 
secret.'^ 

“ Sir,” said I, drawing myself up proudly, “ let this subject after 
to-day be a forbidden one, for the reason that, owing to circum- 
stances, it must be jAainful to both. I will explain this moment, 
since you demand it, a relationship that once existed. I was be- 
trothed to Dr. Wyatt Avhen I became your AAife.” 

Could I have recalled the Avords, recklessly, defiantly spoken, I 
wouldjliave done so, most joyfully. I had not calculated upon their 
effect. From that moment I knew that he loved me. There could 
be no worse reproach for my indifference. He resumed the subject 
after a moment’s silence. 

“ Why did you keep the fact you have just stated, a secret fr-oni 
me ? ” 

‘‘ You knoAv where and hoAV AA^e met. That bad man led me to 
believe I Avas forsaken, that my love was cast back upon me, and 
that another held my place. I returned to find it a lie. Who is to 
blame ? ’" 

“Was it I? You ask me. AAonder, I have neither love nor 
respect from you. Ours is an uiihalloAA^ed union. I saw of late thaf 


BERENICE. 341 

you were not happy with me. I wish I had known the truth. I 
have been basely, cruelly deceived.'^ 

“ Deceived by me 

“ Yes, by you. Did I know^ of your love ? Did I know that I stood 
with a woman at the altar, as her husband, who was dragged there 
to teU a lie to her God and me ? 

Overcome by the intensity of his feelings, he paused. 

“No ! no! said he, softening his voice and manner, “ I thought 
your sadness sprang from other causes. I have lately had intima- 
tions from one who knows the state of feeling here in your home. 
Yom' friends think of you, and pity j^ou, as the victim of a fortune 
hui|ter. The slaves look upon me as an usurper of your domains. 
All are against me.” 

“ You cannot believe that I have promulgated such views. I have 
tried very hard to make you happy.” 

“You have; and I was comparatively so, until your coldness and 
aversion w^ere too plain to be mistaken for an old grief. Just 
Heaven ! I am the husband of a woman who hates me 1 ” exclaimed 
he, starting uj) and pacing the room, back and forth. 

“ Rudolph ! Let me explain my feelings to you. My love for an- 
other passed ’wdth my marriage. No w'oman’s heart should hold two 
masters. The protective, pitting, tender feeling I have for you 
augurs well for our futm'e.’’ 

“We pity a dog if it is hungry or otherwise suffeiing, and speak 
kindly to it, and protect it, too. I spurn the meagre compromise 
betw^een the extremes, love and hate. Give me one or the other. 
A thought, a damning thought just crossed my mind. Have you 
met Dr. Wyatt, duiing youi- wedded life that I know* not of 

“ I have; once within the grounds, in a morning walk.^’ 

“ When r 

“ Long ago, when you, day after da^^ repelled w*ith your cruel 
coldness. I could not rest within doors. You always dechned to 
accompany me.” 

“ Was it accidental, this meeting ?’’ 

“ A question of mean susi)icion. You first treat me with marked 
coldness; you banish me from your presence, and now^ you wound 
and insult me by imputations — most shameful ones ! Did I make 
an appointment with Dr. Wyatt you ask. I answer, no.’^ 

“ Forgive me. I know not w*hat I say. I will complain of nothing. 
I hve upon your bounty, without yom* love to justify my acceptation 
of it. You say I have been harsh and unkind. I know it. The cause 
was an intuitive know*ledge of the httle love you had for me. I do 
you the justice to say that you are, in a remarkable degree, tolerant 
of my faidts. I have resolved to free you from your bondage. You 


342 


BERENICE. 


say you care not for Dr. Wyatt. Well, then, you will have legions 
of lovers at youi’ feet. You are young, fail' and rich.’^ 

“ The wedding garment is not one to he put on and off at pleas- 
ure. We must wear it to the grave.” 

“ Live together when we are worlds apart ! Bound to me when 
your soul is witli another — with him of whom you were cheated 

“ I cherish no thought a wife may not in honor cherish ” 

“ Cherish! Ah, no; you wrestle with a power too mighty for 
your strength, and it becomes your conqueror, your master.'^ 

Our travels lead us to the city of doom — Paris. I sought the 
Astrologer, the arch fiend, the prime mover and projector of my 
misery. He did not appear to recognize me. 

“ Years ago,” said I, “ by following my prophet and my star, I was 
led to sin, to hfe-long woe. False prophet ! Base pretender !” 

“ Who are you ?” asked he, scanning my face with his deep-set 
eyes, curiously. 

“ Victorine Aubrey I was.” 

“All, I know. Well! well! Y"ou are changed more than I ex- 
pected; more than Rudolph’s words led me to believe.” 

“ Rudolph ! 'WTien did you see him ?” 

“ Only yesterday’. He has taken life as you, hard enough, it ap- 
pears. What do you desire, now V* 

“ Ask the stars. You led me by their teachings. Through you I 
not only wronged myself, I made the life-long misery of others.” 

“ Your planet promised you love, wealth, longevity. Such bless- 
ings satisfy most people.” 

“ An unpropitious star told you of the Aubreys and their wealth. 
Would that it could be blotted out from the heavens.” 

Smiling at my vehemence, he Tvent on, steady-voiced, calm — a dia- 
bohcal mockery of my earnestness: 

“ Zeno says: ‘ The avaricious man is like the sandy ground of the 
desert, which sucks up all the rain and dews wdth greediness, but 
yields no fniitful herb or plant for the benefit of others.^ The com- 
parison aj^plies to your discontent. Your parsimony brings you 
hither and urges you to complain of your lot.'’ 

“ False man ! I have poured out gold like water. For benefits I 
receive coldness and ingratitude. I en\y the poor for whom no 
Judas lurks in ambush to sell them for the- forty pieces of silver. 
You betrayed, you sold me. Holding out to me, in my misery, fair 
promises, you brought irretrievable woe. Oh, if it be not irretriev- 
able, show me the way of escape !” 

I can not, certainly, undo what is done.” 

“ Teach me to love my husband ; the lesson you gave me as an 
easy one. Read the way clear. Trace it in the stars.” 


BERENICE. 


24;i 


“ Be calm. There is a way. Take note. My instructions may 
stand you in your direst need. Rudolph wearies of gold ; he up- 
braids me, as you. Reall}^ I have much to endiu’e. People are 
thankless. What do I receive for all my pains ?” 

“ Money, money, money !’^ 

“ True. But to the point. Your husband has visited me. I suf- 
fered great indignity from him — great, indeed, until 1 showed him 
plainly how he had erred. 

“ How was it 

“He had not endeavored to win the lady of Mount Marah; he 
had simply mariied her. He did not deny my accusation. The old 
adage was ready upon his lips, ‘ Love begets love.^ In obedience 
to my counsel, evennore, lover-hke, miserable out of your presence 
he will try to be near you.’’ 

Yon inflict further torture upon me. Know you not, oh wise in- 
terpreter of the heart’s mysteries, that his importunities ^\dll be 
worse than his neglect 

He smiled exultingly. 

“ I read your soul, madame, without the stars." 

“ What do you read I asked. 

“ When a fountain is choked up — buried under mounds and 
grasses — Ave may clear it away and bring it forth again; but when, 
far beneath the earth, it has taken a different course, a secret flow% 
deep and strong, our efforis avail not — the clear waters are lost to 
us.” 

“ If it be true, as your words indicate, that I love another, as we 
loA’e a dream, or a memoiy, that like a pale star, lingers in the hori- 
zon after the brighter orbs have set for us forever, where is the es- 
cape ? What course is left me? How shall I play my pari ? I pray 
you finish what you began. Let it be your work from first to last.” 

“ The discernment and subtle art of woman opposed to man’s 
blundering, straightforAvardness. Who holds the stakes let him be 
prepared to yield them to Avhat the Avorld calls the weaker opponent; 
surely the A\dnner by great odds. Were I to read the stars for you 
a hundred years, their revelations Avould be unsolved riddles com- 
X^ared to Avliat your own instincts would teach you. Reason, facial 
expression, jAersuasive eloquence of sjAecch, softness of tone, all are 
given to jon that they may be used to deceive, if it needs be, those 
AAdio trust in them.’^ 

“ To what base uses do we bring God’s gifts.’’ 

“ If for a good pui’pose AA'hy should we not make them serve us ? 
Find me one Aviio does not deceive. Little time is left you, madame, 
to coax uj) your conscience to its reticence and requii'ed conijAro- 
mise. Better by far stifle it at once. The marplot ! Always inter- 
fering at the point of adjustment, making impossibilities AAith what 


844 


BEKENICE. 


was not only possible, but near consummation. Set about your 
manifestations of the love you do not feel, quickly.’^ 

‘‘You have been seeking a mirage. Miraeles were to arise for 
you ; fruit to spring up from the rocks. Seize what is within 
your grasp, tho’ it be not of the quality you desire, liousseau 
makes Julia say that love is not necessary to make the marriage 
state a happy one. His words, upon the secrets of the soul, are 
as oracles.^’ 

“Kousseau was, to say the least, a sophist. What does he give 
to gratify the soul’s thirst % The wise interpreter of the heart’s 
mysteries leads us to a pathless waste, and there, without a 
guide, he leaves us, only i)oiuting to the vague and undefined dis- 
tance. We may grope about all our lives. I cannot overcome my 
my longings for the love I ought to have had through the Autum 
of life, as in its Spring. I could, if this w^ere all, yield up my 
own happiness, but then there is a life chained to mine. A good 
man’s life. Have J not cause to curse my lot T’ 

“Make jmur conduct, in future, a studj^ Throw all your art 
in the issue of it. If you were to appear as Miriamne to-night, 
before Herod himself, knowing your danger, you would endeavor 
to act well your j^art. You play for a higher stake. Your life 
and Kudolph Gault’s. Your existence must be either a melo- 
drama or a tragedy. The magnitude of your work will create 
an interest in it. To play w^ell a part obnoxious to us is no or- 
dinary task. Platonic love may, in time, replace indifference. 
Another course — I do not advise it, I suggest, 1 lay it before you. 
It is given to man to seek content when and where he can. ‘The 
end will justify the means.’ A precept which excites consider- 
able antagonism of feeling. How grand a scheme it becomes 
contemplating it in its results! We need not object to it as a 
theory. You may cast sunshine of spirit upon his gloom, I 
would say for the perfectness of content, the approximation of 
bliss. If you are athirst drink of the w^aters you crave. The 
desert journey, of which you complain, demands your whole 
strength to sustain you. Brighten the dull road. Let stars of 
love, emanations from your own rightful, self-created Paradise, 
lead you. But mark me, keep strictly your own counsel.’’ 

“You give me poison as an antidote for what I have already 
taken. You kill my soul in this, the second draught, by adding 
a deeper, darker injury to one who trusts my honor, though he 
knows he has no better, no holier claim. Do all unhappy women, 
who are credulous enough to come to you, sink their souls in hell 
to find peace on earth ?” 

“My devotees become apostates to your creed. They enjoy life 
while it lasts. They are like mj^self, Theomachists, who fight 


BEKENICE. 


345 


against the gods to the brink of the grave. Beyond that point 
who knows of it ? Fools give up the certainty for mere chimeras j 
not I.” 

‘‘Do not take from me my hope, my trust, I beseech you. It 
was not to repudiate my allegiance to my Eedeenier that I sought 
you.'' 

“I give the words of one of the wisest Chaldeans, spoken to 
one like you, benighted, looking for a hidden path. “Hath any 
man come back after death, and grasi)ed thy hand, and bade 
thee prepare for that future which appalls the credulous? Hath 
all the tears thou hast shed, all thj^ prayers, in wild appeal to 
Heaven, brought thee one tone, conclusive, convincing, that any 
link between thy world and another, is continuous; that the 
chain is not broken at the end of oar sentient lives ?’ Deeper re- 
futation : Hath thy mother’s spirit given one response to her 
child ? To truths so important should there not be some sign to 
make sure the future ? The rewai-d that fools promise !” 

“Instead of consolation, you undermine my hope, my faith. 
You can give me nothing here, for any pursuit which the judg- 
ment does not ai^prove and Avhich tends to sink us in our own es- 
timation brings naught but remorse. You give me dry husks 
and bid me feast thereon. Ultimate reward for suffering nobly 
endured, is not in the stars, not in your schemes of life. The in 
born sense of right proves that we have a higher sphere, and 
that by willful and deliberate sin we lose Heaven. I will save 
m3’ soul ; I will cast m3’ burden at my Savior’s feet." 

“Take your own course, then. Why come hither?'’ 

“Xot to trust you, believe me, as when I was a sad and credu- 
lous girl. jSTever since 1 have had m3^ eyes open to know the 
object of your leading me to my unfortunate marriage could I 
think aught but ill of 3’ou ! I came to tell 3’ou of 5’our vile work 
and its results — Kudolph’s unhappiness and mine, the sacrifice of 
two lives for gold.'’ 

“M3’ work ! You invest me witli a power and magificence be- 
yond all I ever aspired to. I pra3’ you think of the fixedness of 
Fate. Then of the good that came of your union with Eudolph 
Gault, and be resigned to what was, even if you had never seen 
me, immutable, fixed as are the natural laws of the universe.” 

“The good ! Tell me of any good ! IVIake it plain — I will 
never murmur more.' 

“The goodl 1 have not the time to waste in the telling of it. 
Find it in your life, or according to 3^our catechism after it. Eead 
your mind for the next twenty years, sa3^ your beads, fast o’ Fri- 
days, and make 3’our last will and testament in favor of the 
Church.” 

22 


CHAPTER XIL 


EXTRACTS FROM THE DIARY OF THE LADY OF MOUNT MARAH. 

Not dead. I awoke from wliat seemed a long, dreamless sleep. 
Within it the busy seasons had in going by cut their notches in the 
forest of time, while they sped onward. ’Twas Summer now; yet I 
recollected that in the first of my illness the trees were mournful to 
me, as I lay in the night hstening to their refrains, while the wind 
swept through the leafless boughs. Now eveiything breathed of 
Summer. Heliotrope and jessamine betrayed their lurking places to 
the soft wind that stole in and played around my bed. 

An unaccountable feeling possessed me. The weight of my lids 
was oppressive as I raised them to look around. My mind gi-oped 
about for the pearl dissolved in the wine, leaving no trace of a bead 
or circling ring upon the tide of memory. 

The lost lapse of time ! Zillah, my attendant, had not yet noticed 
that I was conscious, and observing her, as she sat with some light 
work in her hand near me. As I lay there the Ixion wheel of 
thought revolved. The carnival, the dead mother and the babe, and 
then the beginning of my illness, the chill that must have been the 
l^recursor of the long days and nights of pain and delirium and 
death-like slumber. I could remember in my room great fires and 
heavy, warm drapery, and the silken coverlet with its cnmson pop- 
pies, that to my sick and wandenng fancy appeared as gouts of 
blood, at which I clutched, trying to tear them out of theii- fields in 
the quiet, green groundwork. The vivid hue was associated in my 
mind with the tragedy in the sti^ets of Paris. I could recollect that 
Rudolph held my hand to stay its endeavoi-s, trying to bring back 
my wandering thoughts, cajli^g nie by sweet names — names I had 
never heard from him. No wonder they held the boundary for a 
brief period between reason and oblivion. Rudolph’s sombroro was 
thrown carelessly upon the table, the opened book, his slippers, all 
sliowing me that he had been watching by me. A faint cry ! 1 

started — I trembled ! Zillah stooped to whisper : 

“ Be calm, Miss Victorine.” 

At this period of my illness I know the worst. I find that I can 
not move nor speak. After this conviction my heart heaves as if 


BERENICE. 


347 


’twould break. I groan — I cry — I shriek ! Again I make one su- 
perhuman effort to fi’ee myself from the thralls of a mysterious spell. 
I pray for power to utter one word. Alas ! my efforts to clasp my 
poor, thin hands are vain; my speech runs into an unnatural and in- 
human discordance. I close my eyes, and the hot tears struggling 
through the heavy lids pour down my cheeks. Rudolph has entered 
the room. He takes me in his arms, bids me be patient and com- 
posed, that this “ oppression’’ will soon pass, that he has been pre- 
l^ared for this by my old physician. I feel the hot flush on my face- 
Poor Rudolph ! The shadow comes upon him ; he so placid, hope- 
ful and trusting a moment before. Still I lean upon his breast, re- 
signing myself to the will of my Heavenly Father. 

Rudolph interprets my longing look at the little bed. He places 
me tenderly upon the pillow, brings the babe and lays it beside me, 
begging me to be quiet lest I relapse. I can not kiss its tiny face. I 
weep, and thank God that tears are not unavailing. I laugh like 
one crazed, over my babe, whom I have only just known, though 
Rudolph says it is three months old. As I look at it and at him I 
find it very unlike his children — her Gault sisters — who have dark 
hair and eyes. Wondering, grieving that I could not ask one ques- 
tion, with Rudolph gazing tenderly in m3" face, slumber steals upon 
me. The episode, trifling as it is, comes with a sweet and pleasant 
recollection. Da3"s went on. The power to speak did not soon come 
to me. Zillah would press her fingers to her lips in admonition, 
Avhen I tried to make my words intelligible. M3" harassed brain 
was to be comj^osed b3" giving it fields of conjecture to travel over. 
At length, gradualh' came mv lost sense. The longing desire, the 
w"onder, the absorbing thought was to be satisfied. Mv first ques- 
tion was: 

“ Zillah, tell me, my good girl, what babe is this ? Is it mine 

“ Yours, iMiss Yictoiine. Whose else could it be 

“ We brought a child with us from Paris. This does not resemble 
the famih", Zillah.” 

“You ma3" be sure this is 3"Our own child. Miss Victorine.” 

“ And the other, tell me of it. Do, I beg of you.’^ 

“ Maiie was sent awa3' for talking to 3"ou. The3" ma3' do the same 
Avith me.’^ 

“ The3' will not know. We are alone.’’ 

“ Alone ! We are never alone. As soon as the3' know 3"ou can 
ask questions she will be in this room, or near it, to hear us.’^ 

Who wiU be near 

“ Berenice— nothing escapes Berenice.’’ 

“ Lock the door and talk to me. A minute, a second, will suffice. 
Where is the child ? It will be worse for me if 3"ou do not satisfy 


348 


BERENICE. 


iny questioning. I will get up. God knows what I may not he 
he tempted to do ” 

“ You won’t get up, Miss Yictorine. I am here to j^revent your 
injuring yourself. Be sure I shall attend to my business. However, 
if it wiU do you any good, I will tell you that the child is well.” 

“ And Avhere ? Tell me, Zillah, I beseech you.’’ gd 

“ Miss Berenice took it to the city and j)nt it in' good hands.’’ 

“ In the city ! AYhat a Sahara you give me to travel in. Where 
in the city did she place it ?” 

“When you get weU I will teU you.” 

“ Wh}^ not now 

“ Because you might get delinous again, and hetra}- me, for you 
tell not only everything you know, hut ever^dhing you think at that 
time. I dare not risk it 

A footstej) approached. I closed my eyes as though I slept, to 
screen Zillah from blame. The babe was in its nurse’s arms. 

. “ Bring the child to me,’' said I. 

The woman started and stared as though the dead had arisen. I 
cried with the fulness of my heart. I talked of it to my heart. My 
sweet one, my Aubrey child; not a line, not a shadow of the Gaults 
in her face. 

“ She is like my Aunt Winnefred, Zillah. Winnefred her name 
shaU be.” 

Winnefred Gault ! A strong name, scarcely harmonizing with 
this spiiit child, thought I. I had but little to think of but the 
past — its gloom which was fast falling upon the sunshine of the 
present. Rudolph had relapsed into his distant and morose man- 
ner, coming only to ask how we were, to take the babe and kiss it 
return it the nui’se’s arms. I di’eamed of the Carnival, after I had and 
gone over it in my waking hours. The riotous glee, the wild aban- 
don of the maskers, the noise, the deafening din, the crash of the 
wheels, the uplifted hoofs, the frightened horses, panting, foamino-, 
restive, and, last of all, the dying woman. Her babe playing beside 
her, smihng as if ’twere not alone in the pitiless w'orld. "l ventured 
to ask of Rudolph the question which ZiUah had refused to an- 
swer: 

“Where is the babe ?” . * 

“ There, in the nurse’s arms.” 

“ I mean the orphan.” 

“ Berenice has had it cared foi’. She has found a home for it in 
the city.” 

“ And you consented ?” asked I, in a reproachfnl tone. 

“ For your good I cbd so. The sight of it increased your excite- 
ment, and made you infinitely Avorse.” 

“ I am getting 'svell, now, and shall assuredly have it brought back. 


BEEEXICE. 349 

It must be cared for -svitli our own. You cannot object to sucli a 
measure !” 

“ I have nothing to say in the matter. When 3*011 recover and 
are quite ^^ourself, do with it as 3'ou please.’^ 

From Zillah I learned that when my ihness became alarming, Dr. 
Wyatt was sent for. Berenice opposed the measure, saj'ing to Bu- 
dolph : 

“ Unwise man, to have a lover as a phvsician. When he -svas 
brought to the house after the fall h’om his horse, what did you see 
then r 

He answered sternlv: 

“Victorine’s histoiy is not unknown to me. I can trust her with 
one who was her lover, knowing that he can never be so 'svhile she 
is m3* wife.’’ 

The germ of love that broke through the sterile soil of Budolph’s 
heart I nurtured and cherished vrith a wild craving. All in vain ! 
It withered to dust ! 

I cast myself upon the merc3* of the merciless. I asked his for- 
giveness as one who had wilfull3^ sinned against him. A deeper 
-shadow came upon his brow*, a deeper scorn in his voice, as he re- 
plied with hard and uncompromising questions. I had struck a 
jarring chord. There had been in m3* life no wilful! sin that cried 
to 1113* God and him to pardon. 

“ Forgiveness ! For w*hat Victorine ?” 

“ For m3^ faults, Rudolph, or rather m3* deficiencies, for w*hat I 
have not been to 3*ou.’’ 

“ Do I murmur? Do 1 rejiroach or contemn 3*011 

“Not inw*ords, since 3*ou never speak to me as husband to wife; 
but there is a silent language easil3* interpreted — 3*0111’ sad looks 
speak most forciblv.’’ 

“ Henceforth the3* shall not trouble 3*011. Do not mock me with 
3*our supplicating tone. I tell 3*011, madame, it is ill befitting the 
iad3* of Mount Marah.'’ 

“ Call me Victorine or wife. Speak of me and to me as a wear3'- 
hearted woman, wlio asks of 3"Ou refuge in a husband’s love.” 

“ In my storm-tossed soul there is no haven for 3*ou. L^t us live 
as we have lived; live as w’e shall die — apart. A gulf, dark and 
deeji, is betw*een us. M3* death would be the opening of a new life 
for you. Unfortunateh* we do not die w*hen it is best for us to do 
so.” 

“ Rudolph, 3*011 are cruel. You have no pity, no love in your soul.” 

“ Does Dr. Wyatt think of me as 3*ou ? buring 3*our illness he 
has had a fair opportunit3* of know*ing my nature.” 

“ I am not to be guided in 1113* estimate of 3*0111’ character 113" his 


350 


BERENICE. 


/ 

oi^inion. I know not and care not for Dr. Wyatt’s tlionglits. I sliall 
never more cringe to you, Mr. Gault, never, never, never ! You do 
not comprehend me. You can not. Your coarse remarks are ap- 
plicable to false-hearted and calculating mves, desiring their hus- 
band’s death that they may flee to the arms of another. Such am 
not I, Rudolph, and here, sm, I vow most solemnly, before your 
] 3 rophetic bridal gift, ‘ Gethsemane,’ that I will never listen tp a 
word from him to whom 3 'ou would bequeath me, not a word that a 
sister might not hear from a brother. Should you live or die this is 
my determination.’’ 

“ You place a ban upon your happiness by this resolve. I do not 
require the sacriflce of 3'our Avhole life.” 

“ Happiness ! Can the snow^ blackened Avith cinders and the oily 
slime from the crater’s mouth, be made Avliite again ? A Avound, 
healed by the most skillful surgeon, retains the impress of the in- 
jury. An ill-conditioned member is known to have lost its 2)erfect- 
ness, cover it hoAV you Avill. Beginning life aneAV Ave aauII, as you 
intimated some time ago, puU doAvn the old house. Many bitter 
recollections are kept up Avithin its walls. AVe aauII build in its stead 
a modern and tasteful home. I have it in my vision noAv. It shall 
be Rudolj^h, you are not hstening-to me.” • 

“ I am, Victorine. We AviU liaA^e a iieAv home. We aaMI pull doAvn 
the one AAuth bitter recollections.” 

“Yes, indeed, you did hear me. Quite encouraged, I go on. 
Berenice needs a thought, once in a AA’hile, as to her tastes, Avliich I 
am sure do not run in the Av^a}^ of attachments to the Aubrey home- 
stead. Or we will, if you object to the confusion, a consequent of 
constructing a new building, go abroad AAdiile the Avork goes on — 
travel as we used to m our early married life. What think you of 
my suggestions ?” 

“ AVe wiU travel by all means.” 

“ I am dehghted. "When we return the change Avill be so pleasant, 
the rest so sweet.’’ 

“ Or Ave need never return, AAdiich is a still Aviser project.” 

“Not return to Mount Mar ah ?” 

“ I did not mean that you should not end your life in .the old 
place. No; you should die Avhere you were born.’’ 

Time sped onAA^ard. A bkink of days and weeks and months, 
during AAhich the sIoav, dull pain at my heart made me knoAv that I 
IRed and Avas, as heretofore, Rudolph’s neglected Avife. 

We had at this time three daughters. The elder ones Avere like 
Rudolph. He loved them far better than the younger. The prefer- 
ence seemed to me a proof of his selfishness or self-love. Through 
his whole life Avith me I made him in my Avarped judgment aif im- 


BERENICE. ^ 251 

})lacal)le, qiiiet and heartless tyrant. AYhat he really was I hope my 
record Avill show. 

After the desert’s ominous stillness there came a wild wave, a sea 
of flame, blasting, withering, sweeping onward to death. 

Still in my sight are the horrors of that time : whitq crape, muf- 
fled muTors and the little faces Mng pale, rigid, sleeping in beds of 
white roses, waking not to my wild cries. And more. After this 
came the weary, agonizing dread that death was fetill beside me, 
seeking in stealthy way to find what sorrow and disease had left for 
him to complete. Nothing could be more hopeless than my hus- 
band’s face, nothing more indicative of abject misery than the oc- 
cupant of the silent rooms, the rambler in solitary ways. 

The path of duty was plain to me. In one of his usual walks, far 
from the house, one morning I sought him. It was in the very spot 
where, in the early days of our marriage, I had met Dr. Wyatt. 
Yet I thought not of the interview or of him, at this time. Duty 
had been to me a stern mistress, but angels might smile at the re- 
sults of her lessons. 

I determined to bear with Rudolph, whate’er his mood might be. 
Above the wail of sorrow my voice should be heard in consolation 
and pity. With my whole heart in my words, I said: 

“ My husband, let us not rebel at God’s wiU. In all humility ac- 
cept our lot. It may be even worse Avith us if Ave do not. ” 

“ Humble ! Thankful ! Impossible ! Unnatural ! Are you hum- 
ble and thankful V’ 

“ I try to be. I hope I am.’^ 

“ You are better than I am. I thanked God, as j^ou say a good 
man should, for my great blessings. He took them all from me as- 
He Avould had I scoffed at Him.” 

“ Winnefr^d is spared us. You forget her.’’ 

“ I loved the others.’’ 

“ Winnefi-ed is an Aubrey. They Avere like you ” 

“ A doom is upon our children. The storm is not spent for you. 
For me there can bo nothing more. If, in the morning, I awaken to 
find the hearSe and mourners, the mocking pageant which comes to 

make death comely and , I would not Avonder, I would not 

grieve. I am past that.” 

“ Hoav suddenly they grew ill. They Avere so hardy, too; so un- 
like my fragile one.” 

“ I AVonder why God took them. The Avorld is a might}^ fan* 
world. They enjoyed it.” 

“ Ah ! I dare not seek to knoAV my Maker’s Avill, much less com- 
plain of His Avorks, lest worse befall me.” 

“ You make your God a Aundictive God; a God Avithout godli- 
ness.’’ 


352 


BEKENICE. 


“ My God is your God. He is all love for His children,” an- 
swered I, liorrihed at his profanity. 

“ He wMl not, then, first break my heart and afterwards cast me 
from His mercy for my misery. 1 do not like the God you give 
me.” 

It may be* the completion of my life’s mission that I wrest from 
the Angel of Darkness my husband’s soul ! 

In the last days I said to Budolph, when he bade me be calm and 
resigned, as he was: 

“ The calm of your spirit is despair.” 

“ Nevertheless, it is a state of mind to be envied. It asks noth- 
ing; it expects nothing. It knows no heart-boundings, nor heart- 
sinkings. For years I have tried to be wliat I am.” 

“ The torpor wdiich approaches insidiously, and in the guise of 
peace takes possession of us, is not resignation. Our weary souls 
are athirst for pure waters. AVe hold out our trembing hands to 
grasj) the cup which kills. My husband, be not lulled by the fatal 
trance. Besignation ofiers you life and hope. Diink of the true 
waters and live.” 

“ If this be the quiet of despair, w*hat matter ? The worst that 
could be has been. I can defy fate.” 

“ We might lose Winnefred.’’ 

“ We would not miss her. At least I w^ould not.” 

“ You have not observed her of late. I am hoi)eful of her im- 
provement.” 

“ Miracles will come to j'fass. The fool will grow* wise. The dead 
will come back to us.” ~ 

“ No, that can never be. The age of miracles is past. But yet, 
we have something to live for. Do not xlespise our afflicted 
one.’’ 

“ I do not despise her. I scarce recollect her existence. Y^ou 
will not realize her condition. Look at her vacant gaze. Mark the 
unchanging expression. All your devices to test her mentality meet 
with the same answer — fatuity. What solace is she to us?” 

“ You force the femrful truth upon me. Y'ou take aw'ay hope. 
Let me deceive myself if it bring a little — ever so little oomfoid.” 

“ Hope on, Victorine ; pray on. Ht may be that through prayer 
you wiU find your your rescue. The resolve I have made may have 
come as your answer from the All-protecting Father.” 

“ What is that resolve V’ 

“ Your freedom. I loose the chains for you.” 

“ Make me certain of your affection. Ah ! that is w*hat you mean? 
If it be, I can better bear the trials of life, far better, than in our 
estrangement.” 


BEEENICE. 


353 


“ You ask me for affection. When all is lost, you crave my affec- 
tion ? When I could have "iven it you were never near me. I do 
not easily forgive. I never forget 

“ Few of us forget. But you evinced a desire for my companion- 
ship. If I could so have interpreted your actions, at any period 
during the latter years of our life together, I would have been 
happy.’^ 

“ In tliQ latter years, you said — the latter years ! But the early 
times ! Then you were taken up with solitary rambles, moody 
thoughts and unavailing regrets.. So it was in the early years I did 
not complain. I do not, now, blame you. You had no deceit. I 
pitied you then, as I do now, while I point to the brighter pros- 
pect before you.’’ 

“ Oh, Kudolph ! what do you mean ? How is the brightness to 
come ?” 

‘‘ By change. By breaking off the old round — the treadmill 
wdiere soul and body wearies of its task.” 

“ How are we to change our lives for the better ? Speak not in 
riddles, I beseech you.” 

We need not die in harness, need we ? We can live better apart. 
I do not want your fortune.’’ 

“ How cruel ! How' hard your heart must be.” 

am, far and near, known to be a hard, cold inan.” 

‘^Oh, my husband, whas have I said ! I did not mean to wound 
you !’^ 

“We never had a thought in common. Mysterious to each 
other from the hour we met, so we remain. You had not the 
kindly eyes of affection to palliate my faults, neither could you 
know or care that I thirsted for your love, while you despised 
mine.’’ 

‘'Eudolph, I prayed to God, night and day, to soften your heart 
towards me. I suffered for years, in patience, without even com- 
plaining. When our chilnren died, I turned, sorrow-stricken, 
crazed, to you for consolation, to be cast off by your words, as I 
had always been by 3 "our actions.’’ 

“I had Faith, the strong rock to lean upon in my need. I, as 
a Christian wife, have left much undone. I have not led your 
thoughts upward. You are not resigned to the Heavenly will.” 

“You have done your duty. Y’^et there is much to do, YYcto- 
rine, ev-en when duty is fulfilled. From the circumscribed rou- 
tine there are many digressions, many branchings, important as 
the arterial veins ; untiring, ever renewing, sustaining, giving 
life. I needed your love. You thought me strong. I was and 
am weak of purpose. 

“I see my error, clearly,” said 1 in self-condemnation. “I have 


:354 


BEKENICF. 


been an automaton, moved by the springs of duty. All tliat I 
should have been, I will be. Love engendered when the heait is 
sorrow- stricken, chastened, and hopeless, is the most enduriii!.'. 
Kudolph, my husband, recall that cruel sentence. Say not it is 
too late !’’ 

“It is too late, and yet I came not to reproach you. 1 intend 
to warn you and to save you.’* 

“To warn ? To save? What danger threatens V* 

“Berenice has power to do you ill. She has the will. I can 
say no more, ask me no more.’’ 

Partial confidence is of no avail. Why can it not be entire! 
Budolph, be warned also. Let not your demon lead you longer^ 
blinded, bound, chained! Trust me! Tell me your sorrows. 
We might be happy. Oh, Eudolph, that is a hopeless, terrible 
decree to come ’twixt man and wife — too late ! It is heaping the 
last clod upon the corpse of ' love.” 

He bowed his head upon his hands, in a way common to him 
since the death of our children. I stoot)ed, and as I became 
more humbled, I knelt before him. I wound my arms about 
him. “Eudolph, dear Eudolph,” I cried, “can I not be all the 
world to you now ! I believe I love you. I have asked my soul. 
It answers, ‘That which thou dost pity, that which thou wouldst 
save from ill, that thou lovest.’ More convincing proof — my 
heart hungers for your love.” 

He answered kindly, “The soul that truly loves asks of itself 
no questions. It needs no intuitive sight. It has no doubts. I 
know yours better than you know it. I solved its mystery toa 
late to save you and to save myself. The void with you has been 
greater than with me. You never cared for me. I loved you- 
When I kept far from you I loved you most. YT)u knew not the 
bitterness of my heart. The well-springs were drank up by the 
tire which consumes. Too soon, and yet too late, I saw mine was> 
not the power at whose command your cheek grew white or red 
as your heart heaved or leaped with its sudden joy or sorrow. I 
I saw you blush to your brows at a footstep, at a touch, when he 
whom you loved placed his finger upon your pulse. Y^ou think 
it strange that I was not gentle and kind, that I did not play the 
lover to one who hated me.” 

“Are a weak and sick woman’s pitiful flushes proof of love for 
the one who calls them forth ! Observe in others, if you will, 
and be convinced. The love before I met you, mighty as it was, 
has thrown no shadow upon my soul’s record, nor in my path of 
duty as your wife.” 

“Duty, duty ! That is the only comprehension you seem to 


BEEENICE. ) 355 

have of the word wifeliness. Ever dwelliog upon it ; saying it 
over as a well-learned lesson/^ 

‘‘Broken-hearted, neglected, spurned, I know not whither to 
turn. I have not one friend. Even my husband is my enemy ! 
Mercy, at least, should be shown to me. I have never willfully 
sinned against you.^’ 

He felt the truth of my ai)peal. His eyes rested on me with a 
look of infinite love. With sudden relenting he clasped me in 
his arms. 

“Wife, good, dear wife! God pity you V’ exclaimed he. 

“You pity me, too, my husband P I asked in passionate emo- 
tion. 

“After the long years we have wasted we might live, in the 
true meaning of the word, for indeed that was not life, in the 
terrible past, Yictorine.” 

“No, darling, that was not life; not a Christiaifs life. We both 
have been unmindful of our Maker. For days and weeks I have 
not prayed ; not even prayed that we might meet our lost ones in 
the better world.” 

“They will be angels there. I would have them in their earth- 
lessness. If prayer would avail me, I would unceasingly cry out, 
‘Lord give me hack my lost ones in their winsome, worldl}- ways I” 

Eebellious man ! 1 shuddered at his words. However, 1 did 

not chafe the wounded spirit by rebuke, i answered kindly : 

“Our daughters were very fair! No wonder your soul yearns 
for them. They were so like you, too. I called them always my 
‘Gault children.’ 1 told you so once, 1 believe. Do you recol- 
lect f’ 

“I did not hear you. I have not heard half the angel’s whis- 
pers intended for me. I will in future ; every word shall be sound- 
ed and weighed.” 

The angels ! He spoke of angels ! I might hope. 

We sat hours together, talking of our lives from the time we 
met in Paris. I told him, injioly truth, as far as I knew my own 
soul, that every trace of the love of my youth had gone long be- 
fore. That not a feeling to sully my wifely purity of thought had 
ever existed. The moon had arisen ; it shown upon us through 
the open casement. His face was sad — hopeless, hopeless, even 
while he held me to his breast, pressing his lips to my forehead, 
speaking as he had never si)oken before ; still sorrow reigned us 
preme. No promise of joy was in that pale, worn face, with its 
rigid lines that years of discontent had graven deeper. He prom- 
ised that never again should a doubt of my love enter his mind. 
In conjunction with Iiis faith mine should be. I must believe 
that ail he did in future was for our mutual good — our safety, he 


356 


BEEENIOE. 


might sa,y. I must trust him in all things without questioning. 

‘‘Eudolph,” asked I anxiously, ‘‘are we not happy now ? Why 
seek, in any way, to make us happier f 

“Think of my request. It is for your benefit that 1 keep my 
actions and motives from you.’^ In a softer tone, he said, “Now 
go, darling. I have letters to write. I must be alone.” 

He kissed me passionately, sorrowfully. He held me to his heart 
again and again, saying, “Yictorine, you have made me hap])y 
by the assurance of an alieuiation from an absorbing passion. I 
do not doubt your belief in your emancipation, for friendshi[) 
often wears, and fitly too, the grave clothes of love.” 

I planned, as I lie in the wakeful restiveness of joy— joy at my 
changed i)ositiou, a ha|)py future. I resolved to keep him from 
dwelling upon our lost ones. I would intrude my presence upon 
the solitude which made him cynical and misanthropical. My 
love should dispel his gloom. I waited for his footsteps. He lin- 
gered so long that I thought he might have fallen into a slumber, 
I arose from my bed, throwing on my robe, I wen to the libra- 
ry, where I saw a bright light burning. I stood at the door ; he 
did not raise his eyes from the paper upon which he was writing. 
I retreated, not desiring to disturb him. After an hour or more, 
I heard his tread in the hall, suppressed, as if not wishing to dis- 
turb me. I listened and found that he stopped at the room of 
Berenice. ’Twas strange, I thought, when day after day passed 
without his addressing a word to her. I deeply regretted the 
deep aversion he evinced towards her. I passed out on the gal- 
lery and walked as far as her window • the curtain was thrown 
back, allowing me a view ot her room. A low, tapered light was 
burning. I saw my husband enter the room. She was sleeping. 
He laid his hand upon her shoulder. She started up, surprised 
and terrified, exclaiming : 

“Father !” 

He replied : “Daughter ! Devil ? I have work for you ; 
awake for its performance. Where is your desk ? I see it !” 

He took the small ebony desk from the table near, and laid it 
upon the bed before her, opened it, placing upon it a sheet of pa- 
per written over, he bade her read and sign it. She took the 
l)aper and glanced over it. Eudolph’s eyes were fixed upon her 
with a look I had never seen in them. An angry demon he was. 
Shb did not seem to be reading, but rather trying to gain com- 
I)Osure. 

“ Eead it aloud,” said he, in a low, husky voice. 

“ Aloud ? ” 

“ Yes, aloud. None will hear but you and I. Virctorine is sleep- 
ing.” 


BEEENICE. 


357 


‘‘ I cannot read this horrid thing. ’Tis *a scrawl, and I am hut 
half aroused from my deep sleep.” 

“ Would that you never had wakened.’^ 

»my ? ’’ 

“ Would that you had never been born. But no farther parley- 
ing. Obey my command. I place the hght beside you. Can you 
read ? Shall I bring more light ? ’’ 

“ No, 1 can make it out. But say, first, wh}" I should affixuny 
name to this ? 

“ - Twill explain itself. If I speak of its contents I become fren- 
zied. I might kill you.’' 

“ Kill me ? ” 

“Yes, kill you. If you are wise, a^ou will obey speedily.’’ 

She read on aloud: ^ 

“ I, Berenice Gault, daughter of Budolph Gault, the accursed and 
unfoiiunate ” 

“ You accui’sed and unfortunate ! You, w^ho have Avealth, and 
ease, and •” 

“ Read on, or I Avill strangle you ! ” 

“ I will not read it. I defy you.’’ 

“Read, read, notoevery word; then affix thereto your name. I 
am not a man to be trifled with. .You know it.’’ 

“ I wiU not place my signature to this. It is a base lie. I see 
your plan and my step-mother’s, in the last clause. ‘ For this crime, 
I abjure all claims to the Aubrey inheritance, should^'it by any 
means fall into my possession after the death of the rightful heirs.’ 
I will never sign it,” said she defiantly. “ I am accused falsely, for 
this end. Confess guiltiness of what I am innocent Not I. Not 
even for such a terrible man as you. I always knew you loved her 
children and hated me, because my mother was not the milk-faced 
thing that she is. Still, I did not, as this affirms, act upon the 
hatred I bore you all.’’ 

“ The proof which I hold is so plain against you that you might 
be hung upon it. Shall I shoAv^ it to you ? ’’ 

“ You are mad, Rudolph Gardt. I Avill make you so. I AAffil 
scream and denounce you to your Avife as a maniac, Ausiting my 
room and disturbing my slumbers with the umvholesome visions of 
your OAvn crazed brain.” 

“ Sign this, or you shall not leave this room. You will be here, 
safe, in the morning, I promise you.” 

“ And where will you be, when you are known to be mad ? ” 

“ Before my God, Avho cursed me Avith you.^ 

“ ’Tis easy seen Avhat ails my father.” 

“ Sign the paper.’’ 

“ I will not criminate myself, Avhen I am not guilty. As to the 


o58 


BEKEMOE. 


estate, I do not want it. Think you there will not be gold for me ? 
Did my mother, whom you say I resemble, suffer for lack of gold ? 
Perhaps, Sir Desperate Dare-devil, to marry the heiress, you put her 
out of the way, as you would me, for other reasons.” 

At this remark, Rudolph struck her. She fell back upon the bed; 
the lamp was thrown down. In the darkness I knew no more. In- 
sensibility came upon me, from terror. It did not last long. The 
breeze revived me. Each event of the night came plainly to my 
recollection. I procured a light, and went, in dread, to Berenice. 
To what fearful extreme she had provoked him. What the result 
was, I sought to know, almost afraid to find out. 

Her face and throat were purple and swollen from the effect of 
his grasp. She told me the story, or her version of it, not knowing 
I had witnessed the whole scene. 

“ What was the purj^ort of the article he wanted you to sign? 
demanded I. Not disconcertecl, she replied: 

“ The most mad of all imaginary and real madmen, was he. A 
horrible fancy had possessed him about me. Charges which he had 
written making me the vilest criminal. The crime imputed to me 
was one to make your blood chill. Out of pity for you, I dare not 
tell it. He became enraged and violent, because I would not sign 
the charges which he had written of an impossible crime, becoming, 
by this, mine own accuser.’^ 

“ Fortunately his mischief has gone no farther than last night’s 
strange proceeding,’- said I, in a tone of satire. 

“Very fortunate,” she replied; “ we are prepared by it. We must 
secure ourselves — not wait to see what new fantasy may possess 
him, but act instantly. We are here, entirely at his mercy.” 

“ Berenice,’’ said I solemnly, and significantly, “ An hour or two 
before the proceedings you allude to, he was as sane as we. The 
change was most marvelous. May not your father labor under a 
delusion concerning you, from malicious information, or mistaken 
judgment ’’ 

“ If you doubt my innocence, or rather, doubt that he is mad, I 
had better die. I wish he had killed me. He would have suffered 
for it. I hate him, from my soul. You look in wonder. He never 
treated me as he did your daughters. You know he never did. He 
has not been rational since he lost them. He hates me, and there- 
fore I hate him, the heartless wretch ! ” 

“ Silence ! I command you,’’ said I. “ Silence !* I shall despise 
you. Remember, he is my husband.” 

“ No one would knoV he was anything to you,- seeing you to- 
gether. Such love as his and yours ! Arctic rivers ! Eternal 
snow mountains ! Heaven keep me ! I’d rather boil in seas of 
flame than freeze to a petrifaction.” 


BEKENICE. 


I controlled iiiy anger, and in silence writlied under lier truthful 
estimate of our love. In obtaining a promise of silence from her as 
to the deed of violence, the midnight visit, and her dread of ‘his in- 
sanity, I had to cringe so far as to say that I believed her guiltless 
of what he had accused her, though I could not conceive what the 
Clime was. I dreaded to meet him, for I knew how deep his humil- 
iation would be at the tiiought of what his anger had led him to 
do. Much I dreaded the circulation of her opinion as to his state 
of mind. Gloomy, reserved, erratic in his ways, her story would be 
received as a rational conclusion, the true exponent of his inconsis- 
tencies. No one liked him. He was not the type of the country 
gentleman, with home hospitality seems to be smiling out of the 
doors and windows, coaxing oife mtliin. And, besides, a rumor had 
gained credence that he was unkind to me. What he was, I can 
not determine. Some day, in the far future, when I glance over 
these pages, I may pity more than blame. Time is a dispassionate 
reasoner ! Time holds to the soul the mission of Truth. We turn, 
sickened and sorrowing, from' our own deformity, 

* # * :<{ .-K :{{ # 3}: 

‘‘ The widow Gault.” I started as I heard some one say the 
words. In all these months I had not realized what I was. Alas ! 
alas ! It is not strange for me to be alone. I have always been so. 
Was ever wife or widow more wretched than the “ Widow Gault.” 
I die of the slow despair following the torture of uncertainty. AVhen 
Hr. Wyatt told me that time had fallen like dew upon me, that to 
him I would never change, never grow old, my heart had a strange, 
sweet thrill. My face grew pale, my hands trembled, as his eyes, in 
meeting mine, questioned me. Their meaning was plain ! I thought 
it over and over. Eaidh had a new charm, as I said to the silence 
my soul’s exultant thought: 

I wiU always be the same to him.” 

Morn, noon and at night, in dreams, one question conies. Is he 
dead f Of what would he have warned me? What ill could she do 
to me.? What to Winnrfi-ed ? I have had courage at last to say: 

“ Kuth comes to us, to-morrow.” 

A latent energy aroused within me, urging me assert the preroga- 
tive of an Aubrey in her own lands. The child’s position will be, 
for a while, a servile one. Winnefred needs her. Will her gentle 
heai’t go out to the poor, helpless being, I jiray ! How sweet the 
young face is. It brought to mind her mother’s as she lay in the 
coffin. 

God knows I wished Eric Ethel, my husband’s friend, a better 
fate than to wed Berenice. Had I foreseen this, I might have 
warned him. Now, it is too late. 


8G0 


BERENICK 


She is before me, gathering the flowers he loves for her ebon 
hair. Superbly fair ! Supremely wicked ! I know she will hate 
Ruth. I am sure she hates the poor, pitiful child that knows neither 
loA^e nor hate. Could she harm her? What could Rudolph have 
known ? What was Aviitten on that page ? 


CHAPTER XIII. 


Hi^li over the scented stacks of hay 
And the shining waves of grain 
The lark is thrilling. Avhile yet he may, 

The tender heart of the gracious day, 

AVith joy by his rapturous strain. 

But what cares the girl in the setting sun 
For glory of earth or sky ? 

The glory of womanhood— love to-day— 

From the sky of her young life faded away. 

And she only cares to die. 

—Pearl Rivers. 

The last day came, the close of the year. My face had not a Hush 
of life or warmth. Cold, shivering in the mild Spring morn, I wrap- 
ped my shawl about me as I walked back and forth, watching with 
nervous anxiety the gate, where the rows of white oleanders filled 
the air with their almond-like, bitter-sweet odor. 

Scenes of welcome, imagined and rehearsed in my sohtary hours, 
were vanished visions. In their stead was a pale, shrinking woman, 
with careworn brow, anxious, weary eyes. Misgivings had come 
upon me, increasing as the hours sped on. I strove to busy myself 
with other thoughts than the coming of Eric Ethel. I tiied occuj)a- 
tion wEich, engaging only the fancy, had no need of thought. My 
embroidery, in its gorgeous bloom of roses, hhes, f)ansies, had been 
hitherto a rehef in hours when I tired of hope, fear and conjecture. 
Aimless noAV appeared the work. Slippers for tired feet — tired^. 
perhaps, of meandering far from me. He might never wear them; 
never cross my thi-eshold ! The harp allured me. My hands in this 
seemed to have lost their skill, or my soul its appreciation of sound. 

The window, where I could w^atch his approach, had an absorbing 
interest; tiiere I sat until the sun passed its meridian. At last a 
carriage drove up to the gate. My heart thrilled Avith joy ! A lady 
stej)j)ed therefrom. A bitter disappointment ik w^as when the ser- 
vant came to announce my visitor. 

“ I Avill not see Mrs. Moore,” I ansAvered in a positi\^e tone. Dr. 
Wyatt or Miss Pinkington will entertain her, or they may dismiss 
her if it please them best to do so. 

“ They Avent out together more than an hour ago,” was the reply. 

“ Well, w^ell,” said I pettishly, “ go aw ay. Do not return to me 
with any message of hers.’’ 

23 


3G2 


BERENICE. 


As the day advanced I found my orders to have been faithfully 
obeyed: no one came near me. The house was ominously still. I 
did not even hear the voices of the servants. 

At length a messenger appeared to say that an old gentleman 
wanted to see me. 

“ It is Mr. Ethel/^ I answered, as I swejDt by the servant, shocked 
at the implication of age to one who never could be old to me. As 
to Berenice I had quite forgotten her existence. My thoughts were, 
as I reached the hall, divided between the person before me and the 
one I had expected. Who was he, this w'eird man, wdth long, white 
hair, flowing wild and disheveled ? His eyes, set deep under pro- 
jecting brows, had a tire within them, or rather an unnatural lustre. 

A cycle of years added to his own would not make Eric Ethel like 
this man. He looked at me earnestly, as he asked in a low, mea- 
sured way whom he had the honor of addressing. 

“ Ruth Ward, sir,” answered I, advancing and bidding him enter 
the parlor. He did not accept my proposal, but stood gazing at me, 
as he asked: 

“ A^ou are the lady of Mount Marah ?^’ 

“ The lady of Mount Marah died long ago. I am, as I told you, 
Ruth Ward. Enter the parlor, if you please. I will there give you 
any information you desii’e.” He walked with me to the j^arlor door, 
saying, as he paused upon the threshold: 

“ I have made an unceremonious visit to you this evening. I 
came without invitation or announcement. I believe I may address 
you as All’s. Wyatt, may I not ?’’ 

“ That is not my name, sir. If it were, I certainly would not 
have given you another. AYhom have I the honor of meeting this 
evening 

“ You never saw me. A'et I lived here long before you came ; 
You do not know me, yet you know those dear to me. Y'ou will 
question mj^ right to intrude myself upon you.” 

“ Truty spoken, as to my not knowing you. However, sii*, one 
need not be known by me to find a welcome at Alount Alar ah. In 
every sense of the word, I am a mere interloper !” 

“ You speak modestly as to youi- foothold here. Fortune has not 
spoiled you, good, true woman as you are. If Air. Ethel had come 
with me, he would not doubt your truth. I wonder he has ever 
done so.” 

“ Air. Ethel ! Oh, why did he not come ? Who are you, knowing 
my life, my thoughts and Air. Ethel’s also ?” 

“ I am Rudolph Gault. 

I could not speak for some moments; astonishment had paralyzed 
me. I imagine my trepidation was evident, for he bade me not fear 
him; he was not mad, as I had, perhaps, been led to believe. 


BERENICE. 


3(53 

Neither of us, so far, had noticed who stood in the shadow of the 
draped window. I answered his remark in a light, half-careless 
tone, assumed, I admit, to conceal my varied emotions: 

“Mad! No, no; we never thought you mad. All supposed you 
dead. From my childhood, I know, I did.” 

“Victorine thought so. TeU me, I beseech you, in alluding to 
her sorrowful life, what did she say of me V 

“ She never breathed your name to me but once, and then, while 
speaking of Berenice, it was casually mentioned.” 

“ What a horror that name was, when she never fashioned her lij^s 
to utter it !” 

“ To others she may have done so. I, knowing nothing of your 
previous history, and a stranger, would be the last to hear anything 
of family troubles. Mrs. Gault was a sorrowful woman while I 
knew her — broken-hearted at last. You are not ignorant of the 
manner of her death V 

“ Eric Ethel told me every particular of it.” 

“ You have met him recently 

“Yes; within a month.” 

He was to have been here at Mount Marah to-day ?’’ 

“ He would have been, had he not heard that you were married.” 

“ He trusted to rumor, when he knows, too well, how often we 
have been misled by an unscrupulous and indefatigable enemy. 
Married ! How could he believe it ?” 

“ Crushed in spirit by frequent misfortunes, we are apt to give 
•credence to everything we hear which is against us. And, let me 
tell you as a friend, the fact of Dr. Wyatt's residing here with you 
gives coloring to the statement.^’ 

“ Miss Pinkington is with me, also. Will not her presence shield 
me from slanderons tongues V” 

“It is not slander, surely, to say that one is married. The pre- 
sumed mariiage has actually been published abroad. Ethel has 
seen it.’’ 

“ AYhy did he doubt me ? He knew I loved hiiii-” 

“ Doubt is insidious. It creeps upon us and takes possession of 
our senses, unawares. Near the close of a life which doubt has 
eursed, I come to ask a little earth, for charity’s sake. You will 
deal mercifully with the old man ?” 

“ Your words grieve me deeply. This is your home, your own 
lands ; virtually yours, for if Mrs. Gault had believed you lived, they 
had never been mine.” 

“ Dear Victorine ! What her life might have been, but for me !’’ 

“ ‘ Might have beens ’ are paradoxes against laws that govern our 
lives. It is written that we shall do certain things, deeds which 
bear the stamp of their own infamy upon them. Conscience holds 


364 


BERENICE. 


us wavering, discretion whispers of consequences, but a stronger 
power urges us on, often to our own ruin and the ruin of others.^’ 

“ Yet we are held to full expiation after this hfe for what was, 
during it, inevitable. "What idea of justice does this theory em- 
brace?” 

“ The mysteries of this life are veiled lights in our sky, designed 
to beam suddenly, brightly in the darkest hour. Every soitow shall, 
at the end, be a joy-beam; every tear a diamond irradiation in our 
crown.” 

“ You have a Christianas faith; I have not. AVas it Avritten that I 
should be the shadow of more than one life ? You are silent. You 
dare not say so much of fate. AVell, w^ell! Let me bear the burthen. 
You were with my wife to the last.- AVhat were her thoughts of me ? 
AATiat in the hour of death ? Have you no word to tell me 

“ A voice of the past, which speaks most eloquently; a record of 
her life written by herself during her married life and supposed 
Avidowhood, I have in my possession. Y^ou can peruse it at any time.^^ 

“ Give it now; this night, else I might never read it. Life is so 
unceriain. So, Ruth, you have the thoughts of the poor heart my 
cruelty and coldness broke.’’ 

I left the room to comply Avith his request. L^pon returning, to 
my dismay there was Berenice. The angiy glare in Rudolph Gault’s 
eyes brought to my mind a scene at midnight, spoken of in the rec- 
ord, which I held. He pointed to her signilicantly. His Avhite lips 
uttered not a Avord. Defiantly she returned his gaze. Feeling the 
necessity of explaining her jmesence, I said: 

“ I declined seeing Mrs. Moore this morning; she Avaited, I sup- 
pose, on account of not fully understanding the message, assuring 
her of my resolution to avoid an inteiwiew.” 

“ No,’’ reifiied he; “ she understood what Avas exjuessed. Had not 
the ' madman ’ appeared she would have poisoned you, I suppose. 
I left my home fearing that I should murder her if I remained w'here 
she was. To have returned to see her living and enjoying life, Avhile 
her A'ictims AA^ere dead — I could not have boiiie it.’’ 

Y'^ou n.arried an heii’ess for her home and her money, and be- 
trayed m 3 " mother to do so. You had no home. You left this 
house voluntarily. 1 never told man or woman, except your AA-ife, 
upon the night you acted so brutall}", that I thought you Avere not 
fully responsible for all your AAUckedness.’’ 

“I was at least merciful. I did not deal to a"ou retribution. 
Tempt me not now. "Why are you here. There is nothing for 3"ou, 
neither wealth, love nor friends. AVhat have your plottings and 
poisonings brought 3’ou at last ? — the hatred of Eric Ethel and the 
Avrath of Heaven. Go, starve, beg, or steal, but do not expect to 
claim a dollar of Victorine Aubrey’s fortune.’’ 


BERENICE. 


3G5 


She turned fiercely, with bitter upbraidings. 

“■Unnatural father; cruel husband; to both your wives. iVnd 
you, Ruth Ward, you who had my fortune and had my lover ; my 
lover who is dying now, afar from you. Your relenting came too 
late. ” 

Turning fi'om me and fixing her eyes upon her father, she said : 

“Could I have been better than I was ; born of a wronged and 
sinful mother, upon whose life my existence was a stamp of in- 
famy. Knowing, too, all my life, that you had no love for me, 
because, most just man, as my face was hers, it brought back to 
you wdiat you vfished to forget. You wronged her. You wronged 
me. What amends did you make to me for my hated existence V 
Coldness, scorn, neglect. The only favor showm me w^as by her 
who supplanted my mother in your interest — I will not say in 
your love. Had you not made idols of Victorine Aubrey’s chil- 
dren, and of me a thing to loathe, I might have been a better 
woman. Then in my girlhood one came to save me from myself. 

I loved him ; Ruth Ward you know how Avell. You, for whom 
he cast my love back upon me with scorning. No wonder I hate 
you ; no w^onder I pursue you to the grave. With natures like 
mine, love either regenerates or sinks us to hell. We are not 
women to be safely ignored — cast off for the more scruprdous 
and less loving. We lay down all at the feet of our god. If he 
trample our treasures, if he crush the bleeding veins of our 
love, we do not die, but of every fibre springs a vein of poison, 
teeming with life ; life that brings death wherever its course 
tends. It has a thousand manifestations, this malevolent and 
unseen Prometheus ; the corpse of our better natures reanimated, 
imbued with the dark blood of hate and revenge. We fear not, 
we hope not, w^e have no future, no present. The past mocked us. 
We slake the soul's feverish thirst with impure waters. Thirsting 
all the more we drink the deeper. Life at last closes. Who shall 
look beyond? Who shall know but that we children of the 
great and good Father may not kneel together at His feet in His 
own Kingdom, seeing that our actions are governed by our na- 
tures and our sufferings?” 

“The massacre of the innocents will sink your soul to the lowest 
depths of Hell. God, and they, and I pronounce your doom.” 

She grew livid, her lips clenched, pressed in by her white 
teeth. She glanced at us, then turned to me, saying, in terrible 
calmness : 

“He, my father, has made me out far worse than I am. Yet, 
I care not what either thinks of me. I could tell what was never 
even suspected about his children, but I’d cut my heart out be- 
fore I’d be untrue to those who clung to me when every one hated 


366 


BERENICE. 


me. As to you, Ruth Ward, I pledged my soul, when you had 
taken away its idol, to give it vengeance. I have not half com- 
pleted my work. At a death-bed I meet you next — see! Mark 
ye ! See those small, wliite fingers ? His lips have kissed them a 
thousand times, long before he saw you. These shall close the 
white lids. His last glance shall be upon her who loved him first 
and best. You woiild not throw away your soul nor your caste for 
his love. I Tvould. And you, Rudolph Gault, you made him hate 
me by a He. A lie that wiU some day be known, making truth grand 
and magnanimous for me.’’ 

She left the room and the house. 

I ejaculated, “ Thank God, she has gone ! ” 

He made no reply. I imagined the tiniths, in what she had just 
said, hurt him deeply. I welcomed the footsteps in the hall. Some 
one had come in to break the dead silence, to convince me that the 
Aveii'd being beside me, with his white and fiowing beard, was not 
some phantom which the day’s anxious hours had conjured up for 
their closing scene. 

The door opened wide. The kind and genial smile of Dr. Wyatt 
rested ui3on us. '\A"onder took its place. Misgivings about their 
interview were dissipated. Happily, Time had soothed down jeal- 
ousies and bitter memories. 

A few moments’ hesitation, in which, perhaps, each was measur- 
ing his chances of a kindly greeting with the other, then, as friends 
they grasped each other’s hands. Rudolph Gault spoke to the lover 
of Victorine Aubrey. 

“Dr. Wyatt, I meet you once more.” 

“ The dead arisen ! The age of miracles reproduced ! Rudolph 
Gault is hving still ! ” 

I left them, to seek in my own apartments the quiet I sadly 
needed after the day of torture. Scanning late events and their 
inevitable results, I concluded the rightful heir to the lands of the 
Aubreys had returned. Gladly would I yield the homestead in 
which I had always felt myself an usui’per. But of Eric Ethel ? I 
r solved, for him, to be just to myself. He should not die without 
k^nowing that I was not Dr. Wyatt’s wife — not if I traveled the world 
to its farthest limits, by night and day, by land or sea, to whisper it 
in his dying ear. 

My friend came, a deeper rose under her silver curls, and a hapjiv 
look in her faded eyes that mine might never know. She had won 
her way. She held up the shining, silvery side of the ■ cloud which 
was dazzling her own vision. Eric would return when he knew the 
truth. She was positive of that. 

“But he is ill.’’ answered I. “He cannot come.” 

“He will be well when he finds out your faithfulness. Happy 


BERENICE. 


367 


(lays are in store for you. The past will seem an ugly dream, with 
its nightmare, too. Mr. Gault’s return ! Isn’t that the best thing 
of all ? He and Eric, old friends, will end their days together, and 
3^ou will finish out yoim life-long mission of charih^ and Christian 
obligations by taking care of both.” 

“ One side of the case you picture. Turn to the other. Consider 
the very worst. With all my hopefulness, I have. never foreshadowed 
half the ill that has befallen me.” 

“ I cannot look at the dark side. I am blinded in sunshine. The 
(‘oldest, bleakest life has Summer in it for those who perse veringly 
seek it.’’ 

“ What has brought this exceeding joy?’' 

“ A sweet surprise.- . Atla.st somebody loves old Miss Pmkington! 
You never knew half how lonely I was.’’ 

“ You are happy. • Poor companions we are ! -While you dre^m 
syveet dreams, let me -think..” . • > . • - . . . 

“You do not ask me why I am. happy, but dismiss me wuth the^ 
isecret actually tortilring me.’’ ' ' 

' “ I know your secret. I have not been blind of late. I msli yofiV 
joy of the love of Dr. Wyatt.” 

■ “ Good-night, my far-seeing friend. . Happy dreams to you after 
sad thoughts.”' 


CH.VPTER XIY. 


“ If in niy cynical dark nature I have seemed 

Too cold— too harsh at times, forgive me, child ; believe 
It is hard for the tempest-worn to deceive 
Himself to joy, when everything he has deemed 
Most sacred— most worthy all his passions— drifts 
UnknoAvn and untasted to a nameless past;”— 

— Phce. 

EXTRACTS FROM RUTH S JOURNAL. 

It is plaiii that Mount Marah is not mine. My heart had begun 
to grow to it. In despair, this quiet is appalling. The river has its 
song as it hurnes along to the sea. A sad, sad song ! A river, 
darker, wider than this, has arisen between my love and its consum- 
mation. Around and about me looms up the sullen and impassable 
flood. Eunice, in the waves, holds up her sin-soiled hands. The 
cross is far off. 

My old friends are like young lovers, rambling the woods, linger- 
ing to make pretty speeches. Deeper flushes have the pink cheeks, 
and lighter falls the step of the tiny foot. Dr. Wyatt becomes more 
supple and more serious. A year ago F annie was an incubus upon 
his thoughts. Then it was Kuth, only Kuth, whose marvelous influ- 
ence exists no more. He resigns me to the protection of Mr. Gault. 
MTien he told me of his intention to do so, I could not resist the 
opportunity of telling him that I felt the slight. 

“You will acknowledge Mr. Gault to be a very irresponsible 
knight errant for ladies living in the loneliness of Mount Marah. On 
my account it matters but little ; but for another, a lady we know of, 
how wiU she like your leaving us 

“ Fannie, you mean ? I was about to speak to you of her, and of 
occurrences that have altered the course of our lives entirely. 

He stopped abruptly, to ask me not to smile, however much his 
story might amuse me. 

“ I will not move a muscle,’" said I, resolute not to do so. 

“ Y’ou recollect a secret you once tried to tell me, of Fannie’s af- 
fection for me ?’’ 

“Certainly I do, as if it were yesterday. We walked by the sea 
shore, when 3’ou would not listen.’^ 


BERENICE. 


36i) 

“ True, I did not, but your advice has liacl its weight; not at the 
time, but months after. I looked at the case in this way. ‘ Fannie 
is alone,’ thought I, ‘ with as little to live for as myself. We might, 
therefore, beneficially to each other end our da^^s together. What 
do you think of it ? Speak candidly. Do not palliate the folly, if 
you think it a folly.’’ 

Pitying his confusion, I interrupted him. 

“ The step you are about to take has my approval,” said 1, “ but I 
hope you will not both leave me, very soon. 1 must get accustomed 
to thinking of the lonely life I shall be obliged to lead, wdien you 
are gone.” 

“I am sorry to' say, our stay will be short. We were mariied yes- 
terday, during our visit to the city. Keeping the matter secret was 
Fannie’s idea entirely.” 

“ The secrecy of the proceeding was unnecessary. I should not 
have offered even a remonstrance against it,’’ answered I. 

A feeling of j)ique betrayed itself in my voice. Dr. Wyatt was 
rather disconcerted at my manner. He strove to soothe my dis- 
pleasui’e, by allowing his justification to run into an avowal painful 
indeed to me ; one that 1 had often warded off by skillful parry- 
ing. 

“ You think strange of my marrying another, when I craved j^our 
love so madly.” 

“ Not at all; any one is liable to change.” 

“ You are dear to me stiU. You will always be, while you are so 
like the love of my youth. Martyr, saint, even as she.” 

“ Doctor,” interinipted I, “has your marriage crazed you ? Love- 
making the day after it ? Speak to me according to your relation- 
ship ; speak to me, weak and erring mortal, to another equally prone 
to sin. I am no saint. To my sorrow, I found myself, when tried, 
entirely of this earth, earthy.” 

My answer fell like ice upon fire. He acknowledged that he 
rejoiced in my good sense, which ignored the folly of his affection 
for me. 

“ I knew you would thank me, in time, for not making you lose re- 
spect for me. You would have done so, had I linked my fate with 
yours, without deeper feelings than those I ever cherished, fiiend- 
ship, gratitude and esteem.’’ 

In an oracular style, he asked pennission to give recent conclu- 
sions of his, upon disparities as to age. I was quite willing to listen 
to his views. Said he: 

“ Unhappy and unnatural unions are results of a weakness com- 
mon to both sexes, oftenest occurring when in early life, the need of 
the heart has been unsatisfied. We wait and hope for the ha^Dpiness 
which seems our birth-right. Life wears on; we are always looking 


370 


BERENICE. 


ahead. Time gives his warnings; we will not hear. He leaves his 
impress, yet we will not see. Vanity wears an invincible armor. In 
age, as in youth, it defies the assaults of common sense^ which, after 
a long strife mns. We laugh then at our delusion. ’’ 

“ Yes, after our friends have had their laugh.'’ 

“ Age, that does not find its affinities within the boundaries of 
nature’s laws, is the saddest contemplation that moi*tal weakness af- 
fords; one for which youth has a sovereign contempt.” 

“ With the frost of AVinter’s cold breath, Summer flowers, no mat- 
ter how much they are cherished, droop and die, you would say ?” 
asked I. 

“ I do. Y^et there are flowers to be found in silent, unfrequented 
paths, where they fade for want of the sunshine of human sympa- 
thy ! All the better if they grow in the groves of Asphodel, that 
border on the Dividing Sea. If the old could gather these and hot, 
crave the blossom, with the Summer dew, in the flush of the rosy- 
morn, many an old man’s grave would be kept gi’een, and to fill the 
dead man’s shoes, feet, bounding with youth’s elasticity, would not- 
so readity be found.’’ V 

The subject, for many reasons, had a deep interest for me. I led 
it on: 

“ There are many conclusions upon disparities of age in married, 
life. Do 3^ou not believe, we may sa,fely. love, persons older, by many 
years, than ourselves ?” „ 

In a playful vein he replied: 

“ The Cupid of the young is a careless boy. Take ofi’ his ^dngs, 
give him a suit of mail, or put a blunderbuss in one hand ar d a staff 
in the other; give him wise sa;)dngs, sound reasonings, cold calcula- 
tion, we have no longer Cupid.’’ 

Instead of Cupid, a hybrid, a compromise between the God of 
Dove and the old sage — Diogenes.” 

“ Would the nondescript please the fancy of young Psyche, shoiihl 
she enter his palace, to find him thus disguised ?’’ 

I declined to give him my views. He was running into extremes.' 

“ Love,” he continued, “ with most natures, is a sensuous feeling, 
born of dehght and beauty, fostered by the Graces. Hence we can 
not, in age, grasp the shadows which have eluded us, even in our 
youth. They linger with us, decked out in the dehcate tracery of 
our fertile fancy; they walk beside us; they smile upon us in dreams; 
yet they never incorporate with our real life. The visionary, how 
beautiful ! The attainable and real, how commonplace ! Yet, after 
the shock that comes of the collision of fact and fancy, we become 
reconciled. Surviving disappointment we contrive to live a quiet, 
prosy, matter-of-fact existence, without our youth’s ‘ Fairie Queene.’ 


BERENICE. 


3Y1 


Step by step, in my age, through aU phases of love and repentance, 
for you, Ruth, I have gone, you bewitching girl.’^ 

“After the shock came, opportunely, this sweet reverberation. 
May it be a harmony through life. Your wife is, with all her foibles, 
a noble woman.” 

“ I never found fault with Fannie but once, and that was when she 
])ersecuted you.’^ 

“ You should be flattered at the knowledge of such marvelous 
power over one who is alwa^^s consistent. I have an idea that Fannie 
loved you all her life.” 

“ Perhaps so,’^ he replied, as if it was a matter of httle conse- ' 
quence. “You will spend the Winter with us in the city ?” asked he, 
adding, “ It would never do for you to remain in this gloomy place 
all Winter.” 

“ You have forgotten. I shall not be here but a very short time.’^ 

“ True, I did forget. My advice would be of no avail if I disap- 
proved; therefore I give none. Only promise to come back to us 
and settle down when you tire of adventure.” 

Adventure ! Surely the word w'as not an exponent of my restless • 
wanderings ! I, so tired; I, who so earnestly yearned for rest ! • 

Rudolph Gault lived at Mount Marah the life he had lived in the 
olden time, gloomy, unsocial, exclusive. Dr. Wyatt had given him , 
the greater part of his old library which, in his new state of connu- 
bial bliss, could be of no use to him. Fannie was not the wife to let 
a husband lose sight of her by wandering into the realms of imagi- 
nation. Three hundred volumes of philosophy, astronomy, meta- 
l^hysics and psychology kept Mr. Gault in pretty deep waters, for- 
getting time and tide. He read and made notations, and interlined 
the notations with more recent coimctions or surmises, until I fully 
beheve he knew^ not what his thoughts were on any subject. From 
daydawn to midnight he smoked and walked and thought, digested 
and digorged the thoughts of otherS, yet no one had the benefit’of 
liis cogitations. He may have worked for some great purpose, 
which I, in my shallow and cursory views, could not perceive. • Mas- 
sive rolls may not have been written vainly. They may yet make 
clear to those who desire the view of the inner life, which is in most 
t)f us, who have reflective faculties, a mystery. They may lift the 
curtain and rejoice our sight with the glance into the heart’s secret 
chambers, where the wily pretenders, the accomplished forgers, pride, 
policy and selfishness, sit in conclave, or manipulate with cunning 
adroitness the cheats they are about to impose upon the world. 

The last night at Mount Marah ! I went to the library where the 
old man sat poring over his books. A ting ^ of coloring and a breath 
of the outer world had stolen into the murky atmosphere of worm- 
eaten leather and time-stained leaves. A large bunch of flowers, 


372 


BERENICE. 


gathered from field and garden, stood in an immense ewer in the 
fireplace. Violets, heliotrope and mignonette were near him. It 
was an odd grouping, anomalous in the extreme, consideiing the 
fresh blossoms, just born of the breath of June, and the old white 
head. It was the dying out ot the Summer time and the setting in 
of the cheerless Winter. He was surprised at my appearance in the 
library at that hour. How vividly I recollect the conversation of 
that night and the minutiae of my dress. I wore a white wrapper ; 
my hair was pushed back off my temples; I thought its weight 
helped to give me the pain that was often there. During my walk 
at twilight I had gathered the pale rose which I wore upon my 
breast. These flowers brought to my mind the soft, waxen skin 
of Eric’s wife. Her memory was always a painfully sweet one. 

You startle me ! ” he exclaimed, half angrily. 

‘‘ Did I ? lam sorry,” I replied. 

Looking earnestly at me, he continued : 

As you stand there, you are Victorine Aubrey ! How striking 
at times is this resemblance ! ” 

Dr. Wyatt speaks of it, too,” I answered, carelessly. / 

A strange freak of nature,” said he, for people to resemble- 
each other without cause. I had just closed a volume treating ol 
spiritual manifestations. Your coming before the train of thought, 
between the spiritual and material was broken, made me think she 
had come to me. You look as she did in the earlier part of her life 
— as she did the day Dr. Wyatt was brought here suffering, when 
he was thrown from his horse.” He went on: ^‘White as a spirit she 
was, and a rose — the very same — a pale, creamy shade it had, just 
as the one you w ear. You know ot that accursed day when I found 
out the secret of her love. You knew how^ the sight would fall upon 
me. You have rehearsed this scene, as you do your plays. You 
come hither prepared to drive me mad.” 

‘^Mr. Gault,” answered I, drawing mj^self back haughtily, 

please be more gentlemanly in your manner. Reflect, sir, upon 
the improbability of my discussing with your wife the matters of 
her toilette, how she was attired at the time the Doctor was sup- 
posed to be dying in her house. A dress, or a rose, is of minor 
importance in tragedies, at least they are in life ones. I came here 
to apprise you of the cessation of my interests with Mount Marah. 
To-morrow I shall leave here.” 

He arose from his seat, threw down impatiently the book he had 
unconsciously taken up, and walked towards me. I had been stand- 
ing. He led me to a seat, and assumed a kindly manner, He was 
evidently disconcerted at my announcement. I resolved, after his 


BERENICE. 


373 


abruptness, to limit my words to answers. He began to question : 

You are going away ? 

“ I am.’’ 

Whither f Wherefore I' Ah ! I have been rude, boorish ; that 
is your reason. Between Yictorine and me there was ever the same 
distance. I was not born for women to like me — never. Forgive 
me, Ruth. I will devote at least half my time to your service to 
make amends, manifesting an interest in the place above what I 
did when I was nominally its master. A poor steward I have 
been. I will exert myself to do better for your sake.’' 

“ A^ou are now about to enter upon your stewardship. I have 
no fear of your faithfulness. Mount Marah is yours.’’ 

“ Nay, not mine. To secure it to you was one cause of my keep- 
ing so long away. To give the lie to the over-free tongues who 
l^rattled of my marrying Yictorine for her wealth, was another 
cause, and yet a greater one ; I was a wretched man. I went away 
that she might believe herself free. I did not wish to be the bar 
to her happiness.'’ 

“Did she justify your opinions of her nature and its cravings, 
by any deed of her life after you left her? *’ 

“ None. I was wrong. I fully believed, with all her protestations 
to the contrary, that she was deceived in her feelings towards me, 
and that she loved her lost love — her first love.’' 

“ And you thought she would marry him ? You would have 
permitted her to live in an unhallowed state — the wife of two 
husbands ? ’’ 

“ Marriage, to my view, is but a social contract, necessary only 
so far as it tends to humanize our natures, and give caste in the 
eyes of the world. Yictorine’s life with me was sin, legalized.” 

“ Why did you not return when the years of her widowhood 
went on, and she formed no new ties ? ” 

“ 1 was near her often. She did not know me. A month be- 
fore her death 1 walked with her Mount Marah's grounds. She 
spoke of me as one dead. Should I then have returned to claim 
the Aubrey estate 1 No, no ; I want nothing of it but a corner to 
die in.” 

I could have argued the point of his lifelong disinterestedness 
and self-abnegation, by asking how he had lived from the time he 
came to Mount Marah until he left it, if 'tw^ere not upon the Au- 
brey gold. I wisely kept my thoughts, and answered his last re- 
mark about a corner to die in : “ You have it, with all my heart. 
This is your home, Mr. Gault, not mine. Do not remain at Mount 
Marah. Eric will be here as soon as he finds out how he has 
been deceived, tricked and played upon.’’ 

“ I will not stay on account of his coming. Pride forbids. I 


374 


BERENICE, 


have other views, more womanly ones. 1 am not a slave to his 
caprice. I will not, even to him, appear to be so low.’^ 

“ Speak not in this way of one who worships you. Make me 
your friend and counsellor, instead of Dr. Wyatt, whose words 
are to you oracles of wisdom. He is an utterly selfish man. 
You will in time prove him to be so.’^ 

False accusation ! His utter want of selfishness was his dis- 
tinguishing trait of character. There was no time to fight the 
battles for one who would have defended me against greater 
odds. It was imperative upon me to keep to the subject which 
had brought me to the library. 

I am going to Europe,’' said I, “ perhaps to resume my pro- 
fession. The life 1 live here is killing me. I’d rather hear, from 
morn till night, nature in its wildest, fiercest moods; man in his 
restive ways ; the pouring of mad torrents ; the voice of the 
angry tempest-clouds ; the confusion of tongues ; the clash of 
armies in deadly strife ; anything but this pulseless, dull exist- 
ence.’’ 

You will return, depend upon it, just as you did before, dis- 
gusted with the life j^ou so ardently seek.” 

“ If it be in the spirit, I shall surely come to haunt the old 
place. While I am away take care of everything for me, my 
flowers and my birds. Feed the birds in the morning — always 
in the morning." 

The birds 1 Where are they V” 

In the trees : Think you I would cage them when they are 
so tame! They come at my call and rest on my head and shoul- 
ders and feed from my hands. Do not let them miss me. Get 
some one to keep old Isaac’s grave green. It is a bed of velvet 
now. The shells which border it were a little girl’s whom you 
loved, and I so dearly well. Isaac was very fond of her. Leave 
the shells where they are, for his sake, and hers, and mine. 
Every day have fresh flowers put in the urns and vases, as you 
will find them now throughout every room — violets and migno- 
nette. Oh, mignonette ! Take care of that. Now, Mr. Gault, I 
have made all my requests. You are master here.’’ 

Gntil you return, my child.” 

Of course, until I return. How often I must, to satisfy you, 
say it — until I return.” 

Eric will come with you f ’ 

“I hope so.’’ 

‘‘ If he lives he will be sure of it.” 

“ If he lives ! Why say such cruel words !” 

“ Forgive me. He does live. Y'^ou will come together. I want 
to end my days with the only man I ever thoroughly liked. The 


BERENICE. 375 

only man that never disappointed my expectations of his char- 
acter.’^ 

‘‘ If he lives, we will come. You see I echo your words. Con- 
siderinjr the mutability of life how could I have thought them 
unkind 

We quarrel with truth when she comes to say hard things to 
us. We turn from her, when we see far off, sorrow following in 
her train.’’ 

“ Say what you will. Tell me of the bare shadow of a hope. 
I will not shrink from the contemplation. Listen ! I have more 
to require. Am I not too exacting concerning the place where 
I have been but an usurper. A queen could ask no more of her 
subjects. There is some one else to be cared for. Five mdes 
above us, on the opposite side of the river, and near its brink, 
there is a miserable house. A poor, weak mother lives in it. 
She has five little ones ; hungry, always hungry, the children are. 
The mother has fevers, I fancy, for she is always athirst. Send 
her wine, and food, too. The most delicate, for her, must be 
chosen ; the little ones eat anything. If you forget, they will 
die. The father is improvident and idle. He is also an intem- 
perate man.’' 

Ah ! he drinks tbe wine f ’ 

“ No matter, if she get a drop or two to rouse her sluggish 
blood. Do not let the fear of your bounty not reaching the chan- 
nels you chart out prevent your risking. This may be the true 
reading of the command, ‘ Cast thy bread upon the waters.’ Here 
is money which will last you a limited time, not only for your 
own personal comforts, but for charity. I have hoarded it up for 
a dark day, and now it may not be far off*. Not to me ; I liave 
youth, and health, and a voice. There are no dark days to me.’’ 

Do not talk to me in that nervous, hurried way. It reminds 
me more and more of ^Tctorine. You do not feel so sanguine and 
so willing to brave the world as you pretend.” 

I want excitement for my brain, to keep it from going on, as 
it does, all day, all night, upon one theme. By giving it other 
courses to pass in I free it from a fearful thraldom. I have said 
all I have to say. Good-bye ! Good-bye to you and to Mount 
Marah !” 

“ For a time, only f’ 

Again you ask that ! Let me run over the many requirements. 
The poor mother with her little ones in the hovel by the river ?” 

Y"es, you told me of her.” 

^‘Then, the birds must not miss me ; the flowers to be cherished. 
I want a beautiful, nay, a gorgeous Southern garden to enjoy 
when I return.” 


376 


BERENICE. 


Say when we return, Ruth.’^ 

“ When we return, since you are so querulous. !Now, the last 
command is most apt to be remembered longest. I will, in the 
morning, place in your charge a casket. Here is the key. It is 
small, you cannot mistake it for the one belonging to the place 
where poor old Isaac sleeps so well ? '' 

‘‘No, no ; do not ramble off in this way. What about the cas- 
ket to which this key belongs! Is it of any value! 

“ A mere ordinary ebony box, which has within it my thoughts, 
my hopes, my fears, my love, and its })itiful reward up to this 
night. A faithful record of Ruth Ward’s life, at Mount Marah ; 
farther than that, of her life abroad in the world which she hated, 
to which she returns, not for adventure. This document is yours 
for the present. If Eric Ethel comes hither, give it to him. He 
should know my heart up to this hour. You have already the life 
of Victorine, which in its recital involves much of your own.’’ 

“ They who are ever seeking to annoy us, may yet make out 
causes for a suit, to get possession of Mount Marah. The will 
executed in Paris might at least be considered safe.'’ 

“ I’ve been pondering it over. Who knows that your wife, even 
so far back as that, was in her right mind ! 

“ If they proved her mad the property would be mine. I would 
not take it from you after keeping away to insure you the inheri- 
tance of it.’’ 

“ Yet, there w^ould be contention. I dread long law-suits. Gen- 
erations die out, not one of them benefitted by the decision which 
should have been rendered before some of them were born. Mount 
Marah, in consequence of the law’s delay, might be the starving 
lioint of my life, if I were to make it so.” 

“ It could not. If Mount Marah is not yours it is undisputably 
mine. The Aubreys have no living representative.” 

“ Do not be too sanguine ; relatives long torgotten and trampled 
down spring up like weeds to sap away the fruitage and foliage 
of the patriarchal tree. I have no interest here. I am neither 
kith nor kin. If I succeed in my future I shall return for a w^hile. 
An unaccountable misgiving comes over me. God bless you and 
care for you until we meet again.’’ 

“ I pray you return. To an old man this friendless, lonely life 
is a terrible retribution. But if God has doomed me to it, I sub- 
mit. Y^ou will come again to save me! ’’ 

“ Alas ! alas ! I know not. Ruth is no longer bound to serve 
Naomi.’’ 

“ But Boaz lives. The fields are in harvest.’’ 

“ Well, time will show where I shall be gleaner.” 


BERENICE. 


377 


“ God bless you! God guide you/’ said the old man, with emo- 
tion. 

I had not, indeed, expected from him a blessing invoked from the 
God whose existence he pretended to doubt. It may be that Ru- 
dolph Gault was more the Christian than many who stand aghast 
at the word ^‘skeptic.’’ The quiet of the hour gave me opportunity 
for reflection upon the step I was about to take. The conviction 
strongest and most gratifying of all others in my mind, was that 
no one would heed my comings and goings. Other interests filled 
to full measure the hearts that held me dear. Grace was lost. A 
delver in the mines of hidden thought, she became at last a fossil. 
Only the eyes of science could admire or approve the metamor- 
phosis. Seared to what she called “follies,” invulnerable to “weak- 
ness,’' which really meant the trustfulness, the dependence, the 
tenderness which makes the lives of true women, sweet rythms, 
melodies yearned for by man, from the cradle to the grave. 

I had sinned, she said, in yielding to the pleadings of Eric 
Ethel. I barred thenceforth my inner life from her sight. A dead 
wall of books and mollusks, radiates and vertebrates arose be- 
tween us. Names of pursuits, and objects to be pursued, came 
from her lij)s like the buzzing of a thousand spelling bees. The men- 
tal and material boundary was ne’er to be passed in life. • 

“ Your desires,” said I, “lie in ways which yield me no delight. 
Fame is not as sweet to me as the hope of my future ” 

“ A future with Mr. Ethel. You never think of her whom he 
honored above all others j for whom he gave up the pursuit of 
winning you.’" 

“ He never loved her.’’ 

“ How well he loved you!’’ 

“ Yes, he did love me, ev^en though he married Eunice. Do not 
bring up the old memories. Let me have hope for the future — 
faith in him. Let me believe his soul never wandered from me.” 

“ Foolish girl ! ” 

“If you find no harsher name for me I rejoice.” 

“I could find one easily. Mercy seals my lips.” 

“ Grace, I must bid you a long farewell. Your friendship, shown 
in your defense of me when idle tongues assailed my name, will 
never be forgotten. I love you, but you do not love my ways. You 
pull down my idols to show me that they are but clay. Here our 
paths in life diverge. You lead where I can not follow. Knowledge 
is a high and perilous ascent. I am faint of heart. I choose the 
quiet path, where the poor daisies meekly raise their heads.” 

I met her no more. I was alone in the world. 

“ Silver Curls” kept Dr. Wyatt within her cycle. She locked the 
shrine; kept jealous watch over it, even though there was no jewel 
24 


378 


BERENICE. 


in the crypt. What was to be found in the changing 3- ears to sat- 
isfy the heart’s cravings? GrOut, rheumatism, senility. Beside 
these, an old story, written in life drops, paled somewhat by the 
touch of time. Withered leaves, fragmentary notes, records of 
new feelings that had only jostled or pushed aside the old ones. 
A few sprigs of rosemary, a locket with a dead woman’s face — 
the face of an angel. These were the treasures. Yet she was 
content. Wise in her moderation. One can not in age be too 
exacting. 

In my isolation, my lesson conned day by day, under the rod of 
my inflexible mistress, Experience, came back upon my heart. I 
said it to the silence, the stars, the moon, the flowers and the in- 
visible power that follows and controls us from the beginning to 
to the end of our existence. It reads as wiser eyes than mine 
had made it read. “ A pleasant voyage !’’ we exclaim, from our 
outlook, as we stand in Spring-time on the sunny slope of pros- 
perity. Looking from a sea-girt isle we sail with high hopes. 
Fortune’s breezes bring but ripples, tipped with myriads of jew- 
els, gifts of the generous sun-god from his imperishable store. 
So smooth, so bright is every life until fate takes the rudder. 
Ah, that intuitive dread ! How reluctant^^ we yield to the in- 
visible hand. The hidden and unforeseen current bears us out. 
The fruitful isles of bloom-supernal fade on the distant horizon. 
The odors of their blossoms grow faint. We find ourselves cast 
upon a shoreless waste of waters, lost in an angr3", restless sea. 
Tired of the fruitless strife we 3fleld. As the Lil3" Maid of As- 
tolat ’’ upon her bier with folded hands, we float on. The wild 
waters have their will ! Again the latent spark revives. The 
spirit has not 3 et given way to the unequal conflict. Yain efl’ort ! 
We can not loose the grasp of fate ! We close our weary e3"es in 
calm hiunility. Resignation comes with her placid mien and sits 
meekly beside us, or guides us silently on. ‘‘The hour draws 
nigh. The journey, though toilsome, is short.’’ The sands in 
the glass have slipped away. By the great light, brightening as 
we draw nearer, we find we have made our voyage. Celestial 
liarmon3^ breaks upon our ear, to which all earthl3^ music is lost ! 
Sweet serenity ! Jo3' infinite ! Bliss supernal ! 

When would this hour come to me? Life was but begun ! Yet 
I was old in the sad knowledge which comes early to the poor 
and friendless. When I started out upon the world for the first 
time, I was not lone, desolate, forsaken. I had, too, one dear 
hope, that moved me. Eric Ethel would hear with pride of m,y 
success, as a fulfillment of his own i)rophecy. He would be in 
the great crowd that listened to me. I was not out on the world, 
as they had said. This was the last night at IMount Marah. 


BERENICE. 


379 


Never, never, should I hear again the murmur of this mighty 
river, or the sighing of the wind in the trees, or catch, in one ex- 
<luisite perfume, the balmy breath of our Summer flowers, or sleep 
with the young May moon stealing in its broken rays, as now, 
through my vine-veiled lattice. 

Later in the night I started from a fearful dream. Eric was 
dying. 1 leaned down to kiss his lips. A cold face came be- 
tween his and mine — a wicked, sinister face, half woman, half 
flend. A white jeweled hand touched mine, which, at the con- 
tact, fell jiowerless. Her fingers pressed down the lids of the 
dear eyes. She came between us. The cloud that always veiled 
my sun. 

I place in this casket deeds, records, all documents appertain- 
ing to that i)ortion of tbe Aubrey estate known as Mount Marah. 
Yictorine would not have left him homeless and penniless. Un- 
der the promjitiugs of a great and remorseful grief, she made 
me the heir of the homestead. Now, since her husband's return, 
it must be, to the plainest view, his. What would he do cast 
adrift, when, in the zenith of his days, he was but a dreamer, an 
idler, shifting the burden of life upon weaker ones. By a just 
equity easily gotten gains are easily lost. I, acting upon the 
thought, will give to him, in his lifetime, Mount Marah. I rid 
myself of that which has heretofore hampered my movements. 
Like the heavy armor, the choice of past ages, hanging in dust 
and mold on baronial halls, it presses upon a weak frame. I 
bare my heart to poverty rather than shield it thus. I passed 
over to his care, my birds, my flowers. Rudolph Gault, with 
vines and exotics, sensitive to a rude breath or touch, and the 
birds perching upon his shoulders and feeding from his hand ! 
What a travestie upon this Hercules ! Thinking of his hands, 
they are white, soft and exquisitely formed. They seem no part 
of his organization. Hands are characteristic. His heart is not 
— it can not be — callous, with such expressions as his have in 
their movements — a soft, caressing way. My birds and flowers 
will be safe with them. Ah ! if his heart were as soft as his 
hands ! Dear me ! I am wandering widely from the subject. 
Every breeze to-night has a moan with it; but for that I can say- 
truly and sadly : 

Earth has not a joy. 

Not a hope that does not cheat us, 

Not a sweet that does not cloy. 

AVith the expression of my oi>inion of the world, lUulolph Gault 
and the possession of Mount Marah, I throw aside my pen. 


S80 


BEKENICE. 


Placing the lid down, I write a word in adieu to my thoughts, my 
hope, my love. 

Paris, August , 18 . 

A STRAY LEAF FROM RUTh's LIFE, WRITTEN IN THE HARVEST TIME. 

Madame Cardave met me to-day with kindness. 

So you are not married ? asked she. 

Oh, no, madame.” 

“You have not found Mr. Ethel in Paris? ” 

“I have not tried to do so,’^ answered I, curtly, feeling that she 
had read my thoughts. 

“ I know you have not gone through the streets with a bell in 
your hand to find him. Yet every day, sick at heart, you go home 
to mourn over the fruitless hours. Answer me in sincerity. Ko 
false play. If you love this man and wish to meet him, it is not 
impossible to do so. Speak at once, Kuth.” 

Summoning up courage, I answered : 

“ I would meet him if he still cares for me. If otherwise, why 
should I bring the mortification to him, the agony to me ? 

“He does care for you. He has been ill, very ill. I took care of 
him for you — at least I hope it was for you. A lady came to see 
him while he was in a very low condition. She stole in, for visitors 
were not admitted. Upon entering his room, after a servant’s 
absence, I was horrified to find her by Ins side.” 

“ How did she act ? How did he act ? ” 

“ He didn’t act at all. He was fearfully passive^ If he were 
ready for the coffin he would not be more like a corpse than he 
was then. She became emotional. She knelt beside him.’’ 

“ For what ? ” 

“ Either to pray or to listen to his breathing.’’ V 

“ Was nothing said? You talk so measuredly. You torture me.”^ 

“ You are jealous. I know, poor, weak creature, that you really 
love.’’ 

“ Madame! ’’ 

“ Do not protest or deny. Let me tiuisli, ’ said she, as she con- 
tinued : “ I begged her to leave the room, telling her that no good 
could come of her remaining. Still she lingered until he awakened. 
•She stooped to speak tp him. Of course the temptation to press 
her lips to his was great. She yielded to it, begging him to live. 
How silly, when it was not a matter of choice with him.” 

“ I wonder that he permitted such a familiarity.” 

“ It was purely mechanical, I can assure you. I fancy my lips 
would have suited him as well as hers.’’ 

“ And was there nothing said ? ” 


BERENICE. 


381 


Oh, yes, that was the best of the scene. He spoke, but in a 
murmur ot impatience. Neither she nor I heard the words. She 
disked him to repeat them.” 

Go, woman ; let me die in peace.” 

Oh, if you had then looked upon her face! ” 

He did not want her. In my dream was ” 

Never mind dreams. If you do not see Mr. Ethel in a day or 
two, you will never see him. He heard of your marriage and 
believes it. His physician has ordered him aw^ay. You observe 
what your chances are ? ” 

Can you not send for him ? ” 

I could, blit you are not to be depended upon. If you saw him 
this moment I dread you would send him off on another pilgrimage 
of a year or two. In the interim, some practical, sensible woman 
<jonsoles him, leads him to the altar, and goes on through life with 
him. You appear in the last act, roses in hand for the sepulchre.’’ 

That follj^ is past, believe me.” 

I will trust you. Do not deceive me. Come to-morrow. You 
shall hear directly from him.” 

‘‘ Thank you ! Bless you ! It is getting late ; I must return. 
But to-morrow ! I long for to-morrow ! ” 

“ Stay ; I w ill accompany you part of the way. Felix can be our 
-cavalier.” 

Felix ? How liandsome he has grown.” 

As you thought. He is very bright — quite the more original 
of the two.” 

‘‘ How pleasant the evening. The gardens are thronged. Is 
this the place where Eunice met Mr. Ethel?” asked I, shudder- 
ing at the recollection. 

Do not allude to that girl, I beg of you,” she retorted. 

Be merciful. I knew her better than you. She was the victim 
of circumstances.” 

^‘If you defend- her. Miss Ward, we part on the spot, forever. 
In a moment more you will have resolved not to marry the hus- 
band she betrayed, out of pity for her.” 

If I meet him and he loves me we will not part.” 

“ Now I comprehend your views. I answer your query. This is 
where they met. That they ever met w^as your fault. He ought 
to have been by your side when he was in Paris.” 

‘‘ Oh, I wish we could meet hipi, as Eunice did — by chance. 
My soul, even now, revolts at the thought of bidding him, like a 
lovesick girl, to come to me.” 

You may be saved the compromise. This is a favorite resort 
of his. Ruth ! Ruth ! How wonderful ! Look ! ” 

“ Madame Cardave, why are you so moved ? Whom do you see ? ” 


382 


BERENICE. 


Mr. Ethel, iu the path coming from the eutraoce, at the east- 
ern gate V' 

It is he ! He hesitates ! He has seen us ! How shall I act f ’ 

With a tormenting smile maclame said : 

Send him away again, of course. He is coming this way. 
Felix, we will return home. We are de tr(yp. Miss Ward has a 
friend to entertain. Come to-morrow, ma chere, before Cardave 
returns, and tell me adieu.” 

We were married at the Church of the Magdalene. The choir 
chanted the hymn 1 sang for Hr. W^yatt after his illness. My 
liilgrim looked lovingly upon me as I leaned upon his arm. I 
smiled at the memory of the “ marble Ruth.” He folded me to 
his heart, calling me his poor, tired dove. AVould I be marble? 
Not with life in its flush of hope and joy, with the warm blood 
bounding in m^^ veins, crimsoning my cheeks ; not with the deep 
adoration in my hearty not while I feel the thrill, the response 
from soul to soul, which his hand gives to every fibre of my 
frame as it clasps mine; not as I, in deep and abiding faith, rest 
upon his true heart. 

Eric is no longer young, but there are beings whose fascina- 
tions have no deiiendency upon time ; there are others always 
old to us. 

My relinquishment of Mount Marah with all its domains, gives 
him pleasure. How cruelly I once misjudged his noble nature! 
He works early and late, for he is poor, and I must not sing iu 
public, while he has ^‘life and strength.” Strength ? 1 smiled 
at the word. His work is only a tax upon the eyes and brain. 
We live in the home he bought for his first bride. . I write the 
words without a pang. I am content to be his alter the long 
Winter, for I know it was always the Summer of his heart. 


CHAPTER XV. 


Somewhere there blows 
Myrtle and rose 

And cedar for me ; 

But where, no one knows. 

Or none will disclose 
The secret to me. 

Somewhere a grief— 

■ A skeleton thief— 

Is lurking for me ; 

But where, only One knows. 

Who hides futiire woes 
Somewhere from me. 

—Espy. 

STRAY LEAVES TELLING OF RUTH. 

Paris, August 1st, 18 — . 

JIrs. Dr. Wyatf : — 

My Dear Madame: — Your marriage did not surprise me. I saw 
how devoted the haudsome old gentleman was. Ah, me ! you are 
fortunate. To be so loved in one’s maturer years is rare in a -world 
so full of girls. (Answer to your inquiries.) Euth’s httle boy is 
very like herself, which she never admits. Nothing but “ Eric’s 
nose” and “ Eric’s mouth.” I had a good deal to do with bnnging 
about this happy union. Even when it was all over and they quietly 
liappy, Berenice was indefatigable in her persecutions. Mine was 
the i^erilous task of taking the fangs out of this serpent. I argued 
(logically, I think) : “ They are married. The man hates you. Two 
reasons for letting them alone. They are poor; they have only love. 
You may crucify them ; you can not kill the grand passion!’’ She 
bit her lips to keep from speaking. Still I persisted: “ The Aubrey 
estate is slipping from your father’s feeble grasp. Go to him. He 
should get over his foolish antipathy to a daughter, a woman of your 
genuine sterling*qualities of mind and heart.’’ 

She started up indignantly, saying sharply: 

“You know better, Madame Cardave.” 

“ I really have the highest appreciation of your character. I ven- 
tured to advise. Why, an old man in his dotage should be coaxed, 
cajoled into measures. The heirship of the Aubrey estate is worth 
striving for. Your father can not live very long.’’ 

She drew herself up haughtily, saying: 




BEKENICE. 


I liave already taken steps to invalidate Miss "Ward s claims to 
Mount Marah.” 

“ Useless, entirely. Mliy not have come to me before vou took 
the trouble to do this ? The jdace goes with all the rest of the es- 
tate. It is your father’s; made so by Buth immediately after her 
marriage.’^ Sitting a few moments in silence, she began to be rea- 
sonable. “ I believe I will be guided by you,” said she. “ I have a 
child. His future must be considered.’’ 

“ A child !” exclaimed I, in astonishment. 

“Yes; a child. I was a wife, madaine, once upon a time,’^ she 
added, sarcasticaU}". 

“ Dr. Moore was killed, was he not ?” 

“ Through his foolish jealousy he lost his life. If all jealous peo- 
ple were annihilated there would be more harmony in this world.” 

In retaliation for her coup de main, I continued: 

“ Mhy have you not married again ? It is wi'ong in you to waste 
youth and rare attainments in a desolate life as yours must be, chas- 
ing shadows, grasping at sunbeams.’’ 

“ Madame, in your jdeasantries you venture too far,’’ retorted she. 
We parted, after the interview had been prolonged for an hour or 
two, very civilly. 

You write as to Mount Marah: 

“ The old man thinks himself poor, receives alms, tends Butli’s 
flowers and feeds the birds while waiting for her. Bulh will never 
see them I fear. Indeed, to my exceeding grief I have noticed of 
late a great failure in her looks. Her foim is no more remarkable 
for its fine contour. Her cheeks have a flush that tells a tale; the 
brightness in the eyes, too ! I turn away. I can not bear to think 
of an early death for her. Her voice remains — a glorious voice it is. 
He never permits her to sing in public now. I write of my fears. 
I have hopes when I think of her, but when I look at her and see the 
shadow of a coming woe in the great, gray eyes, I despair. Eric’s 
fears are awakened. She smiles at his serious look, when he speaks 
to her of rest being absolutely necessary to restore her failing 
health.” 

“It is only the care of this boy of ours, my husband,” said she 
to him the other day, when the change in her caused remark. 

“ Something must be done to relieve you, Ruth.” 

“ What can be done ? What true mother can ever have rest ? 
Look at his pretty mouth, with the little pearls. He pays very 
dearly for them. Why should not I suffer a little by soothing and 
watching ? No rest, now, for me, but in a few months he will have 
all — a mouthful. Then I shall rest and sleep well.” 

There came a pause, just then, in our conversation. It lasted for 
some moments. Did the words linger in each and every mind as 


BERENICE. 


885 

prophetic. Sleep well ! A deeper shade came on Eric’s brow. A 
look of greater tenderness in his eyes, as they regarded her. To 
break the silence I opened the blinds, and then as light did not 
brighten ns, the piano. I sang, and by special request. Felix made 
a discord in an accompaniment upon his drum. The baby was in 
wild glee. The gulish looking matron, forgetting her own ailments, 
became jubilant at his demonstrations of dehght. A"et, in all, the 
sad look, contending with the smile, lingered on Eric’s face. 

WRITTEN IN THE SERE AND YELLOW LEAF. 

Time is short to the happy, but the w^eary and heavy laden count 
its lagging pulses, longing to lay the burden down. The Past, the 
Present and the Future ! Mystic three ! Like telling our beads 
we traverse the circle. We slip away, first the units, then the de- 
cades, days, months and years. We reach the end — the cross. We 
take no farther note of time. How welcome that rest ! 

* #*##**** 

I have caat my fate and theirs upon a desperate hazard. I have 
tried to cheat myself into belief. I have said to myself a thousand 
times, “ The audience will think me old and faded, but they will 
listen to me. My voice is young. If, at the first glance at the 
shadow' I have become, they do not seal my doom, I may tmst my 
voice for the rest — the finale. 

To-night w'ill be life or death ! My cheeks, under the paint, are 
not hollow' ! My lips are full and red ! I do not look so old ! How 
the sightless eyes wander round the room, seeking me ! The wist- 
ful face is turned to mine. Ah ! I forgot. I am putting on my 
armor for the strife. 

To-day I formed a new resolve. I w'ould appear to Eric careless, 
light-heaided, hopeful, as one who had no superhuman sorrow' drag- 
ging at her poor heart. I would be as one who could be looked 
upon by eyes that w'ere once the light of her life, not as now, witli 
the wistful, searching gaze following me. I would awaken his 
soul, stricken, benumbed, from its cold, corpse-like slumber, its 
living death. I told him I looked forw'ard to a bright sky, in which 
my star w'ould be in the galaxy. People would gaze and worship as 
once. We w^ould not be poor — not long. His faint smile was the 
smile of incredulity and hopelessness. Tears follow'ed it. I think 
he w'ept because he wanted to look into my eyes, to see in them the 
ho23e my lips had promised. It w'as the morn of the day of fate. 
He asked me such torturing questions. 

“ You w'ear your diamonds to-night, do you not 

I hesitated. M'hat should I reply, when w'e had lived upon the 


880 


' BERENICE. 


diamonds for one long year. Trivial matters now occupy liis 
thoughts to the exclusion of greater ones. Once he scorned all 
littleness. It is not so strange, for he has but a narrow sjdiere 
to compass with his thoughts. The house, the garden and the lane 
of poplars, where he is led about like a child. While I was fashion- 
ing a reply to his question of the diamonds, he asked another, 
equaUv perplexing to me : 

“ What material is this ? I do not know it by the touch.” 

“I have been tr^dng effects to-day, by putting on what J shall 
wear to-night. Do you not recognize velvet ? ” 

“ It has a peculiar sensation to me that velvet never had l)efore. 
Why is it that my lingers ‘recoil from it?’’ 

“Your fingers are at fault, not the texture of my royal robe.” 

His answer was in his sad tone that always told how deeply he 
reahzed his loss : 

“ My touch should be true, when my eyes are in my fingers.’^ 

The velvet he missed had brought us, long before, a goodly 
sum. In the substitute the folds fall just the same, but to the 
ever sensitive fingers it is a paltry pretence. The audience wiU not 
know that their “ queen ” wears Tabby velvet, and glass instead of 
diamonds. 

How false I have become ! Paints and patchings ! Never am I 
to be true Ruth again! My loved and helpless ones! I must 
be for you young — young and fail’. Words to be written in 
glaring letters on the passports which lead women to the goal of 
fortune ! I am not old ! The years seem but days since I stood 
upon the threshold of the Great Temple, and looking in beheld oidy 
heaps of ashes. When I sorrowfuU}" turned away to find my life 
had been all vain ! 

My voice has gained in volume and sweetness, so Eric tells me. 
Strange ' enough it remains to me when my poor limbs can scarce 
support my failing frame ! And I have heard such fat)ulous, such 
dreadful stories of voices ; voices that played false when the ears of 
the multitude were wide open, eager, expectant ; when life, fame, 
all dejiended upon them. If such calamity befall me, I fear I 
should miirmui’ at my God. We would starve! The pretty, sup- 
ple hmbs of our child would lose their lightness ; his features be- 
come wizened, sharpened by want. Hideous shado’ws are within 
our home ; deeper, darker they gather round. 

“ The stars are smihng down upon me, blessed omens, bidding 
me be hopeful,’’ I whispered softly, kindly, to Eric. “ Darling, I 
must go ! Do not wait up for me ! Mind, you must not ! Pray, if 
you can ! Pray for me, for my triumph — I cannot pray.” 


BERENICE. :387 

“ Ruth, this is terrible ! Your heart is not in this. You hate it. 
Ah, could I only ” 

“Only what?” asked I quickly, nervously, to hide my strong emo- 
tion. “Only see me I suppose, in my stage attirings? Depend 
upon it, Eric, what is left of me to your memory and imagination is 
infinitely above what you might see.” 

“ You would always be beautiful to me.’’ 

“ How likely that is. How pretty it sounds. ‘ Around the dear 
ruin each wish of my heart," etc. Common sense teaches us when 
people get old and ugly, even love’s partial eyes discern the falling 
off. To-morrow night, if aU goes well, you may hear me. Oh, do 
not look so solemn. I shall not have the heart to go through mth 
the ordeal. Come, be ga 5 ^ Let us get up a little drama. I shall 
take a new character, with you as my support. I appear in it 
foidliwith. You are the Prince of what? Of husbands, which 
you are in reahty ; a millionaire, which you are not. AVe are 
a fashionable couple — I, a thoughttess, thiiftless vife, for whom 
you do not care a sou ; a wife wdio leaves you to your wine and 
your reflections, while she, in velvets and diamonds, goes forth to 

I can’t finish the history ! Look at the clock ! I have staid 

'till the last second ! Kiss me ! Don’t sit up for me, please, Eric ! 
You will ? I see it in your air and manner. If you do, you shall 
hear nothing of my debut.” 

* s}: # * 

I am ha 2 :)i)y ! not quietly and calmly so, but with a dehrium of 
joy. ‘ Proi)hetic of ill to come,’ Eric says. It may be true. God 
knows best. 

I must have acted wildly last night when I came home. I tried 
to awaken my husband’s lieaid to the joy notes so lately heard. I 
recollect saying, as I touched his lips with mine, “ Eric, how cold 
you are, how silent. Rouse uj) ! Rejoice with me ! I have had a 
glorious night ! ’’ 

“ Thank Heaven! ” was the fervent jirayer-like words and tone. 

“Yes, tliai^k Heaven! I have been saying jn-ayers all the way 
home. Let me tell j^ou how it all was. At first the aj^plause was 
the faintest imaginable ; 3 "et, under this discouragement I kept 
up bravely. The dubious moment was when I first stepped 
out ujoon the stage. AVhen I sang they changed. I sang with 
all my soul ; I sang as for hfe, as a slave for freedom, or for any 
blessing which we hold highest. I sang for what . is greatest, best 
of all, money, money. I thought they would never cease ap- 
jflauding to let me go on. In every a(d I was encored, and ‘yet 
I never wearied, my voice never flagged. Tlie glamor of the 
old life is within me now a (*ontinued, restless fever. It must die 
out in song.” 


388 


BEKENICE. 


“ Did you see any of the faces which, in years gone by, made 
your audience V’ 

“ Except Madame Cardave, I saw no one, nothing only a living, 
moving, human sea, that swaj^ed, and surged, and lay motionless at 
my bidding.” 

Marie remarked here, that I must not forget the little boy’s ap- 
plause. 

*‘Ah, Felix! Yes; you are right, Marie, he was objectionably 
demonstrative. He stood up on the seat and cried ‘ Bravo,’ until 
I feared they would put him out. His mother clapped her hands, 
and laughed, showing her white teeth, that with their size and 
oddity, fairly made me forget everything else.” 

Eric, catching at trifles again, remarked: “ I recollect madame’s 
teeth as being very defective.’’ 

“ So they were, but one can always get new teeth, can they 
not ?’’ , 

“Yes, yes, so they can,” replied he, “ but never new eyes. Eyes 
once gone are gone forever.” 

“Never new eyes, darling, no; but then we can get accustomed 
to the loss of oui’ old ones, and we must try hot to cherish grief 
and hug it to our hearts. Think how many have endui-ed the 
same deprivation. Homer, Milton, Handel, yet, withal they may 
have had what hght and sight alone never gave to man. Light 
supernal ! Ghmpses of heavenly glories ! The loss of one sense 
intensifies the power, as well as the enjoyment of others. You 
can not see, but you may hear, if God wills, Avhat I, with every 
sense, may never, in the same degree of rapture, hear — celestial 
choirs, angel voices. Eric, I am so happy I Do not take from 
the fullness of my cup. The way is clear for us; no more groping 
about in darkness; no more the one fearful cb’ead! "We will not 
starve; we shall have money !” 

“ You never cared for money.” 

“ I hated money when it came as the inheritance which did not 
rightfully belong to me. Now, I toil cheerfully for it. Eric, I 
would be stretched on a rack, pinched with red-hot pincers, drag- 
ged with wild horses, just witliin one gasp, one breath to insure me a 
continuance of life, for money.” 

“ Your words are grating. I hear in them the ring of a bitter 
experience. You have suffered more than you acknowledged since 
I have been bhnd !” 

“ Not I, to play the quiet saint. Sometimes I was rather pressed. 
I even feared I would have to part with my diamonds.’^ 

“ Never part with them, Buth !” 

“ Never!” answered I, mockingly solemn. An effbid to undeceive 
him must be made. If I should die he would be trying to find my 


BERENICE. 


389 


jewels. Better now the truth he told by my own lips. I suiamed 
up courage to say; 

“ Eric, 1 have no diamonds, no jewelry of any kind. I do not care 
for the glittering jewels. Jewels do not keep the cold nor the 
aching from the heart, do they, darling ?” 

“ No, but the sacrifice ! the sacrifice of these and more. Your 
life for me has been a sacrifice. You are young, fair, the idol of the 
world. You come to-night from its worship to a miserable hovel, to 
nurse an old, blind man. A cruel fate, my darling, for you.’’ 

“ You are cruel. My love is poorly measured, if you think my 
fate hard, when yours is so much worse. After my night of trial, 
too, and forgiving you for disobeying me, waiting at the gate for my 
return. Moreover, Eric, when you talk of my youth and beauty 
you become ridiculous. I am old. You know it if you will only 
think. I am ugly — on my honor.” 

At last he smiles — that incredulous smile of his. He does not be- 
lieve ; he has not seen what time and woe have done for his wife. 
I shall sing while God gives me his great gift. True it is, my health 
fails. I must endeavor to keep uj) my strength. If I only had some 
of the wine from Mount Marah that I often gave to the poor mother, 
dying of want, as we have been ! The thought brings others ! Her 
home on the banks of the great river, wdiere I used to watch the 
drift, and dream and dream. Ah, me ! I dreamed, but never of half 
the woe that came ! I said, arousing : 

“ My lonesome, loving, dear old husband ! I can not leave you 
here, alone, till midnight. I have planned a better way. AVe will 
lock uji the house, go to the city, get rooms near the theatre, until 
my engagement is over. Y^ou can accompany me every night. 
Would you like it f ’ 

“ Of course I should, if it does not trouble you too much to bother 
vrith me.’’ 

“ Well ! weU ! My pilgrim ! Who to death will stand before 
‘Ruth?’ Not Ruth in marble, as I thought then. No, no; you w'iU 
not trouble me. Eric, you can’t thinly; how handsome you are still. 
I want every one to see you.” 

“ Don’t mock me, for God’s sake, Ruth !’’ 

“You won’t believe ? I can’t convince you ? Listen, then, to 
other themes. To-morrow we will pack up. (Luckily, it is not much 
to do.) There’s a prospect of our traveling a great deal. My suc- 
cess was not, in my best days, more certain than now. I shall be 
obliged to use artifice in my professional life, but all women who live 
long in the world, and by the world, must come to unpleasant sub- 
terfuges at last.’’ 

“ Artifice ? What ? What mean you ? You never used arti- 
fice.” 


390 


BEKENICE. 


“ If Nature lias done a great deal for her* favorites, she tires at 
last of battling with Time and Grief — her w'orst adversaries. She 
at length gives up the strife.” 

“ Time ? You are not old ! But grief ? Oh, yes, you have had a 
sad life. The smile of youth will not linger on our lips, nor the un- 
clouded brow remain. With me, as Arith you, there is no use in de- 
ceiving ourselves. The bloom of heart is gone. The bloom of the 
cheek and lip, and the fire of the eye follows.” 

“We who would please the public, and serve ourselves thereby, 
must study effect.” 

“Your sense of light is to be crushed by necessity. Poveriy is, 
indeed, a curse.” 

“ Do not break the charm ! Golden dreams are before me ! Money ! 
money! money! We shall not starve ! Artifice is a trivial matter. 
Paint ! What of it? Will it not wash off?’^ 

“ Your recklessness is unnatural to you, and it is terrible to me*” 

Poor Eric ! He will never have a joy in this 'world. His philo- 
sophic nature fails him now in liis greatest need. 

Since my illness it seems he never sleeps. He must not hear the 
pen tracking the paper. This page is the last I shall write. I won- 
der if he ever knew how well I loved him ! This night must be the 
last. I feel so well, so strong ; I am gaining strength to die. Eu- 
nice has been with me of late through the long, silent hours, when 
they thought I slept. I shrink from my atonement. Leaving them 
at last, when for them I battled for disease. For them I sang to the 
last night, the last act, the last scene. In that dread hour of mortal 
agony for them I smiled. Oh, that sudden and acute and continued 
pang! The deathly faintness following it. My cheeks and lips 
would have betrayed my illness, but the paint kept on the cheat. I 
gasped for breath ; I clutched at my throat, to free it from its un- 
usual oppression. At last came relief. My lips were washed of their 
desecration by a deeper, darker dye. My white robe and the pale 
rose upon my breast were stained with cilmson. Then they brought 
me home. I would be willing to die but for them. My child has a 
future. He will scarce remember me. Eric, blind and broken- 
hearted, will not forget. He has heard me ! I must go back to bed. 
He gropes about trying to find his guide. I shall be that no more ! 
— never, never ! I must go back to bed. God be merciful to them 
both! — my husband — blind, helpless — and my boy ! 

TvUTh’s last words, written on the unfinished page by MADAME CAR- 

DAVE : 

“ Eunice come. The clover is green and sw'eet ! You are our 


BERENICE. 


391 


queen ! I have been lost. My feet are wet with the clew.- AVhat a 
weary way. Oh, what a weary way ! ” 

“ I am with you, darling. Sj^eak to me. I am Eric, your hus- 
band. Speak. Say that I have never wiUingl}- given you one sor- 
row.’^ 

“ I dreamed we were j:)arted by that dark and sullen flood ; but I 
am with you. You are aU my owii. You never willingly gave me 
one sorrow.’’ 

“ Bless you, my beloved, for your words. 

“ I sang to the last, as I promised. Didn’t I? ’’ 

“You will sing again when you are weU.” 

“ Aye, perhaps to-night, with the angels.” 

“ Oh, Ruth, clo not speak of death! God is merciful. Could I die 
with you how joyfully I would give up this life.” 

“ Be patient. Bear our parting nobly. I must sleep now, Eric. 
AVhen I awaken I will tell you my dreams. Of late they have been 
so strange. Stay by my side. Madame Cardave, if I should sleep, 
a long, long sleep, promise me ” 

“ Mliat ? What shall I do for you ? ” 

“ Do not let them perish.” 

“In sweet security of my faithfulness you may sleep. If my 
Heavenly Father gives me life I will care for them while they need 
my care.” 

“ Eric, love, come ! Open the windows. Let me see the stars. 
Dark, dark, all is dark ! I do not see you ! ’’ 

“Ruth!’’ 

“ Good-bye, darling.'’ 


CHAPTER XYI. 


I have no faith in man or woman more ; 

Whene’er I see a smile upon the lip 
I think the heart is rotten to the core. 

I never love, nor am I loved in turn. 

I hold no creature what he seems to be ; 

I’d rather know the world my foe in all 
Than feast my heart upon hypocrisy. 

— Cl/AUDE. 

THE END OF THE JOURNEY. 

“Is this Mount Marali ?’’ 

“ It is. Does it disappoint your expectations 

“ Rather. I see no mountain near.” 

“ Like many of our castles in Espagne it is only so-caUed.’’ 

• “ A level country is truly welcome to me, for my eyes have 
wearied of being lifted upward to the rugged brows of trans-Alpine 
hills. 1 spent the Winter under their shadows. A sorrowful Winter! 
I shudder at the thought of the year which chronicles three 
deaths — Ruth, IVIr. Ethel, and, last and dearest, my husband, so 
loving.’’ 

“ He became so during his illness ?” asked I, naturally enough, 
knowing his nature as I did. 

She replied, with considerable warmth of manner : 

“ His impulses were always noble, but at times he yielded to 
temptation, as in the case of Eric’s false wife.” 

Shocked at her cruel remark, I said: 

“ Be merciful to the dead, I pray you, madame.’’ 

“ You do not know half I had to bear. Merciful, indeed ! W"hy, 
he raved of her while dying in my arms.’’ 

“ We rave about people and objects that we never saw. Do not 
brood over unpleasant things. You came here to forget them. See ! 
in the distance is the home of the Aubreys. ‘ Tara’s Halls ’ could 
not be more desolate.” 

“ Even ‘ the harp ’ must have become, by this time, a habitation 
for loathsome things that infest forsaken haunts.” 

“Ah, yes,” said I, entering upon a painful train of thought; “the 
things that creep o’er the beautiful, the lost and the cherished, when 
Ave can neither see nor touch them more.’’ 

“ How will they lunch and dine, think a'Ou, Avhen we are cre- 
mated?’’ 


BERENICE. 


393 


So speculated one Avhose second tliouglits were apt to be a cold 
shower-bath upon the shuddering form of sentiment. Since our 
marriage he liad become quite matter-of-fact in his ideas. 

“ Doctor/’ said I, “ we wish, in our expedition, to be incognito. 
The old man will most likely recognize you, and, therefore, be un- 
approachable to us.’’ 

“ Before I take leave, tell me, Madame Cardave, how you like cre- 
mation ? I am as curious as one who has the exclusive contract for 
making urns. Instead of the slow decay, when ‘ Life feeds on 
Death, and the earth fattens on cormptioii’s inward throes’ shall 
we, o’er our urned dead, sniff the aroma of calcined bones ?’’ 

“ Violence to the remains of what we have Avorshipped ! To de- 
stroy what we would have died to save, seems impossible.” 

“ Dust thou art, and unto dust thou sbalt return,” quoted I, hoi>- 
ing to silence the discussion. 

After the doctor had advocated cremation as a (;ertain and swift 
Avay of fulffUing the divine command he left us to ourselves. 

“ Not even a cloud of smoke is to be seen,” remarked madame. 

The strong circumstantial evidence of the proximity of mortals, 
is certainly w^anting. Yet, still he whom we seek is here. We must, 
in our interview^ turn a w eak point of his nature to our advantage 

-his love of lucre — for upon it hinges our only hope of success.’’ 

We w^ere, by this time, at the gate, looking within at the old man, 
walking leisurely dowui the avenue of oaks. We exliausted every 
w’^ord we knew’ applying to custodianship, yet he pretended neithei* 
to see nor hear. 

“ How^ shall w^e beard the lion in his den asked madame, in a 
discouraged tone. 

“ Say tha Douglass in his hall,’’ replied I. “ In case of his hearing 
us the title would be tar more conciliatory. Ah ! he conies at last..’ 
He stood at the gate, keeping it closed against us. 

“ Si^,” said I, w^e would like veiy much to examine the old man- 
sion and grounds.’’ 

“You are on the grounds, and would not be off them in a 
week’s tramp. AVhat more ? There is nothing in the empty 
house to look at, is there ?” 

My heart seemed to bo trying to hide out of hearing of its 
beats for a minute, but 1 rallied, and in my pleasantest tone 
asked : 

“Can you not admit us to some parts of the building about 
which w’e are curious ? We w ill not remain long, nor intrude 
farther than your limit.’’ 

“It is in law', and has been so for years. AVould you have me 
act against dual orders, strictly forbidding exploring expedi- 
tions ?” 

25 


BERENICE. 


■sn 

I replied, logically, I tliongiit: ‘‘If a place has two owuers, 
adverse claimants, it has literally none. Let me offer you a very 
slight reward for your trouble.” 

I took off the girting of ray pocket-book and abstracted there- 
from several treasured coins, rich in the mint of memory — me- 
mentoes of flush times. His face lit up, or I fancied so, as J 
pushed them through the bars into his broad palm, soft as my 
own. Answer and evidence, in an old rhyme with a moral, al- 
ways timely, “The voice of the sluggard.” The ponderous gates 
hew back. The magic key had unlocked them. His manner had 
changed entirely. Urbanity unquestionable was in eveiy move- 
ment. 

“You can explore the old wreck of a place to day, or take it by 
parts,” said he blandly. “The conservatory will be interesting 
to you most. It is my kingdom, the Howlers my friends and sub- 
jects.” 

“He has mounted his hobby; we must let him rule,” said I in 
an undertone to my companion. 

“An old stock,” continued he ; “everyone having its private 
history. Experimenting to a considerable extent, T have crosses 
and hybrids. From rank weeds I have reared flowers the most 
beautiful. Flowers which take an important stand in the floral 
kingdom. The charlock. You’ve seen that 

“jS^o, never.” 

He delightfully produced it. 

“In the seventh generation, as now with this, not a trace of the 
first exists.” ^ 

'‘■How wonderful a metormorphosis.” 

“Wonderful, indeed, for in all plants there is a tendency to 
retrogression. The original type struggles for continuity and 
supremacy. Man, as well as plants, must be kept uj) by 
weeding and pruning, lest he degenerate, becoming as the snail 
in exclusiveness, or the toad in self-sufficiency and unprogressive 
cjontentment.” 

“This place may be an Alma Mater for plants, but it is ill 
adapted to the advancement or improvement of man. There can 
be no incentive to labor, not even to till the earth under present 
discouragements. AVould any one attemi)t it, think you?” 

“A thorough utilitarian might do so. T am beneath the stan- 
dard. I would grudge every thrust of the spade, every track of 
the plow on land which, after my labor, might not yield me a 
bushel of grain. In the gathering time I, perchance, at the far- 
ther end of the earth. My flowers are imrtable. The law’s de- 
cision shall not cheat me out of my gains on these. My interest 
in IVIouut.Marah is within this narrow boundary. I am keeping 


BERENICE. 


89r, 

it up to my idea of a Southern garden. It wavS a request of a 
lady who really is mistress of Mount Murah. I am hoping for 
her return — Ruth’s return. Poor Ruth !’’ 

Our guide, and egotist in his way, allowed neither eye nor ear 
repose. Motioning to a certain spot, he said : 

•‘Here are lichens, ferns, and mosses. Curious links in the 
races of suiferers or parasites. Here is a remarkable plant, dis- 
cretion.’ Plunge it into water it will still remain dry. It keeps 
its own secret. Towers, tops of mountains, eyries, are its strong- 
holds. This was taken from the talons of an eagle, in the Andes. 
The cornelean cheriy, a sturdy tree, it is : an athlete. It boasts 
of fifty years. The Abraham of the garden.’’ 

‘•The wood is ver^^ hard, is it not I asked for the sake of not 
being thought jmosy. 

^‘Hard ! Yes, it is,” he answered, emphatically, ^‘and prized 
all the more for it. It is as hard as ” 

‘‘Marble,” I suggested, helping him to a comparison. 

“No!” he retorted, “not marble. One can work marble softer 
and impress it. Hard as a woman's heart. It lasts, too, like her 
works— her bad works.” 

Receiving no reply from us he walked quietly off' to arrange a 
bough of the tree, and to recover his good humor. I changed 
the subject eft'ectually by saying: 

“Here is an old friend of mine.’’ 

“Sweet mignonette. Ruth’s favorite. You may see Ruth after 
we look a little farther.” 

“ See her ! Is she not dead ask I, unguardedly. 

He made no reply, but led us on. 

“The mosaics of memory have fallen apart at the sweep of time, 
in endeavoring to replace the fragments he gets them into a sad 
jumble,” said Madame Cardave. 

Access to the library and i)aintings was gained by passing through 
the neglected garden. The damp grass and the tall weeds were 
suggestive of snakes lurking near. The old man strode on in silence 
before us crushing the serpent's head, and doing us the smaller 
service of flattening the grass and Aveeds. At length oui’ walk had 
ended. AYe had iin aded a stronghold — a safe retreat of l,)ats, owls 
and spiders. The echo of our voices Avas painful, as I asked ques- 
tions and he replied. 

“ You have had statues here V” 

“Yes, some of the finest; the AA'onder of every one. These 
moulded, hideous Avails Avere literally covered Avith paintings.” 

“ AYere the owners Europeans ?” 

“ You ouglit to knoAV that Americans like pictures and statues a\ ell 
eiiougli. They go abroad to see them, however. • • Practical, sen- 


BERENICE. 


sible, far-seeing people, who will not sj^end money on what may not 
he contrihutive to your creature comforts. This was foreign taste , 
you may well say it.” 

My face flushed at his remarks, hut I did not rej)ly. 

“ Here are the family j)ortraits, valueless to strangers.’’ 

“ I, a stranger, am deeply interested in this old place. It is a pei- 
fect treat to get into it, even thus far,” I reiflied. 

American, decidedly, in your wonder at old houses and histories. 
You ought to travel in countries where on high road and mountain, 
deU and valley, is to he found its old house, aye, many a one; each 
holding a history of cliivalry, romance, deeds of valor, and often of 
sin, to w'hich this story would he a lifeless recital.” He continued, 
gallantly, as he gave me the way: “ Let heauty take precedence, as 
it always does. I must show you first, hy the same rule, the fairer, 
the helle of her day.’’ 

After scanning the full-length portrait of a lovel}' woman whom I 
knew too well, I remarked: 

“ The features are faultless. Still it does not cpiite jflease. What 
Is it w’e look for and do not find ?” 

“ An essential element — goodness. Every face to he satisfactonly 
beautiful must have that. In a stormy sea the sky does not reflect 
sapphire and blue and silver.’’ 

“ Who was she ? Is she living ?” 

“Oh, no! The heirs are contesting this property with tlie rightful 
owners.’’ 

“ The rightful ones, you think ?’’ 

“ I know,” was the curt reply. 

“ TeU me of them. I could listen all da}' to stones old, romantic, 
as this must he.” 

“ You came here, as they all do, to, make me dig old graves over 
and bury my dead.” He paused a moment in emotion, then said, 
carelessly: “ The suit vdll he settled. You will hear of it in the pub- 
lic prints.” 

I turned from him to gaze upon the imperial heauty here in the 
zenith of her course. She seemed so hfe-hke, just as I had seen her 
the day she came to make terms with Ruth for the Aubrey estate. 

“ She is like jnetures I have seen of Phrynne,’’ said madame. 

The old man answered: 

“ She had her painter as Phryne her sculptor-lover. I have al- 
ways thought it a waste of time to have fashioned Phryne in mar- 
ble. But from the days of Eve such lips and eyes as these hav(i 
made men slaves, cowards, or what they Avill. Plirynes and Cleo- 
patras live and have lived in every age.” 

“ How rich the folds of velvet fall. The hair, too, is so purple- 


BERENICE. 


397 


black, and the gleainiiig of the rose how vivid. The necklace is per- 
fect.^ It might be taken for great tears — rare, pellucid crystals.’’ 

“ The painter was a disciple of Masson, who, it is said, eycelled in 
giving richness to velvet and other material. You spoke of the gems 
looking like tears. Tears ? By my soul, a happy thought, lady. 
Her guardian angel might have wej^t o’er them her iniquities.” 

“ And is this a likeness V Not flattered?’’ asked I, as if I knew noth- 
ing of it nor the original. 

“ She is there, j.’ replied he, “ as she used to be in her proud days 
and wicked ones.” 

“ After such evidence of genius one would expect to hear much of 
the artist’s career,’’ said Madjime Cardave. 

“ He loved her. She broke his heart. The old story in a few 
words.’’ . • 

“He must have loved her when he painted this. It looks like 
Love’s work.” 

“ Perhaps even he could never have answered the question. Who 
ean tell when Love comes, or how, or why ?” 

“ I think we are at as great a loss to know how or why Love goes 
when we find him gone,” said Madame Cardave. 

“ Nor which the more welcome, the exit or entrance, f o or from 
our hearts. He knew, who said when he loved: 

‘ If I were now to die, 

’Twere now to bo most liappv, for I fear 
My soul has her content so absolute 
That not another comfort like to this 
Succeeds in unknown fate.’ 

Step this way. Is not this a better picture ?’’ said he, clianging the 
senous tone. 

“ Two figures ?’’ 

“ Y^es; one is Ruth. I never remember the other.’’ 

“ And who is the one of little consequence I inquired. 

“ Winnefred played an important part in the history of this old 
liouse. Y’^ou are, I su])pose, a physiognomist. Select Ruth by w'liat 
I have told you of her. Find the one ca])able of great deeds — not 
<aTisades, but womanly and quiet ones.” 

“ Are they sisters ?” 

“ Not related, but always together. I can not explain the snarled 
up story. One would have to tell a dozen life histories to get at 
theirs. I have neither the wdll nor the time. Every moment of a 
life nearly S2)ent must be precious.’’ 

The gush of affability was wearing off*. Minutes were becoming 
j) riceless. 


39S 


BERENICE. 


“We will not intrude longer upon you to-day, but hope to visit 
the place again,’’ said I, half tempted to betray nn^self. 

“ As you please.”’ 

“ Who called this place Mount Marah asked I, as we turned to 
depaid. 

He replied: 

“ Those who suftered in it called it so.” 

In passing through the garden -sve noticed ^ a.ses and bronzed or- 
naments broken and scattered about in the grass. M}' parasol, in 
dealing a jiathway through the medley, knocked a head aside — 
long-bearded, wreathed with vine leaves. I picked it up, and w iped 
with my handkerchief the dust from a leering face. 

“ JoUy fellow^” said the old man; “never among all the myths of 
fable will you remain incognito.’’ Holding it up to our view% witli 
an attempt at pleasantry he spoke to the senseless subject. “ Yours 
is a fool’s face. I never saw a merry face whose possessor had com- 
mon sense. Thriftless dog ! you deserve your fate among the rub- 
l)ish, with a broken pate. Ladies, a rhyme by no poet.” 

“When will the}^ settle this suit, think you?” I asked, trying to 
lead him into conversation upon his hallucination. 

“ The old fable of the fox and geese. You know it, of course,’’^ 
answ^ered he, in a hurried wa}'. 

“ The fox in his arbitration devours the spoils. The lawyers are 
the rats eating at the cheese, I judge.’’ 

“ Right; they are.” 

At these w^ords the gates, to my astonishment, closed. Not a word 
of adieu. ^Ve w^ere literally driven off. Rudolph Gault disappeared 
in the tw'ilight shadows deepening in the groves of Mount Marah, 
while I stood mute with suiprise. AVe w^ere not satisffed with the 
result of our visit. AVe had seen nothing of the house. 

“ The ‘ wicked beauty.’ How'^ like her it must have been when it 
was taken ! Poor Julian !’’ 

“ I wish I could get the porirait of Ruth, I am sure w^e ought to 
have it, and not that half-dazed old man,’’ answered madame. 

“ Ruth’s journal and her j^icture we must have wiien w^e go again. 
Try by the major key.” 

“ I will. How' well he likes the chink of coin.” 

“Aye; better than the singing of the linnet or the murmurs of 
the breezes.” 

“ You said that romance and crime were in the records of the 
Aubreys ?” said I, in my second visit to ]\[ount Marah. 

“ Perhaps I did; but if you had a book to wnite would you give 
away the plot?” 


BERENICE. 


SWJf 

“ A book ! You intend writing one ? Your subject would aftbrd 
you a tine moral.’’ 

“ Why Avould a moral be necessary ? Books with morals evident 
u})on every page are generall dry.'’ 

“. There must have been good and noble characters in the family 
of • the Aubreys. The good should, in all cases, be predominating' 
or leading in any work. To gain renown for the writer, they must- 
be.’' 

“ Renown ! What do I care for the world and its thoughts of me 
after death ? Well, what it says of us before is never truth, so that 
is unimportant. In endeavoring to revolutionize society by books 
we fail. Incident, life, death, are far preferable. Pellets of moral- 
itv, sugar-coated ever so Avell, are no food for pampered appe- 
tites.’' 

Desiring to be i^ersuasive, I fear I became dictatori.al as I an- 
swered: 

“We .should, in books, as in life, give to vice the anathema of 
(xod and man.'’ 

“Books are theories, wntten under the domination of reason 
when passion is not on the rampage. We mite maxims at night 
which we do not follow in the morning. i\Ien, wise by reading, are 
fools where women are concerned. The fascination of your sex is 
a problem which no book will ever solve.” 

“ If you write I would advise you to especially avoid dullness and 
moralizing. Paint vice in soft shadings, mist it o’er with so delicate 
a skill that neither the wise.st nor the simplest may see its hideous - 
ness. It is not a difficult task. We are very willing to be led 
Idindfold.’’ 

“ What incalculable mischief to natures impressable and imi- 
tative would such a book perpetrate ! It is, as you remark, so nat- 
ural for toung and old to assume the role easy and pleasant, instead 
of what is difficult and exacting." 

“ In arranging your plot give virtue a cotton gown; make her 
truthful lips have axioms that jar ui^on the nerves to hear them, 
upon each separate sense to live up to them. Call the sins common 
in fashionable life by their right names, punishing them as they de- 
serve. ^ Ydio will read to the end ? The third book of Plato it will 
be where there are no Platonists. Not pursuing the course of Vir- 
tue through her prosy way, who will know how happily she gTew 
old, and how calmly she died? Not one in a thousand. Mark me I 
but very few will go through the dance if you lead with Virtue. 
Vice, a dazzling, painted wanton, luxurious in her tastes, the means 
used to gratify them must be mercifully expatiated upon by writers. 
Enfold her form in soft velvets, hlmy gavizes, gorgeous jewels; let 
India’s looms find Persia's wares yield up for her their treasures.’^ 


400 


BERENICE. 


“ Her beauty and her triumph are for the present,” I replied, in 
utter hoi^elessness of bringing about the object of my visit. “ A 
corrupt heart shows its depravity in the face, if we live long- 
enough to impress it with our evil thoughts. However, your coun- 
sel shall benefit me. 1 shall, since ,you advise me, write my book 
with contrasting views of life, Virtue and Vice, not giving to either 
retribution or reward, on earth. What if the former die in a ditch, 
and the latter doze away her life on downy pillows, which I admit to 
be a common lot V Can I not, at least, hint at a Future 

“ Ah, you shift the responsibility of the finale ! ’Tis well ! But 
are we not unwittingly involved in argument irrelevant to our inter- 
ests? And are not you, as well as myself, jesting on a grave sub- 
ject?*’ 

“ Never was I more in earnest in my life. I wish I could impress 
you with the belief. You would enter into my views.’’ 

“ What are they?” 

“ You have the history of tlie ])lace. I would give you a fair 
price for it.’’ 

“ Friend ! if I may call you such,’’ said he, in a low, impressive 
manner, “ I am poor, very having nothing but -what 1 glean, 

one way and another, by the sale of plants, or the admission of vis- 
itors. I am very old. iSfy tenure of life is as uncertain as my 
ability to remain much longer in this place. 1 fear I can not stay 
until Ruth comes. I must liave money. What amount would you 
be willing to give for the life of Ruth, which would include a j^or- 
tion of the lives of the Aubrey’s and mine. 

‘‘Much would depend upon what the incidents were. Writers 
want fuel to feed the fire of ex])ectancy. And then again, the 
most eventful lives lose interest in a tame or prosy recital. Few 
hooks outlive their authors. ’ 

“Those worthy of immortality do.’’ 

“Nothing truer. 1 will think over what you suggest. 1 ])ro- 
pose, upon 2 >lea of poverty, to parade the sorrows or follies of 
others before the public. No, no, I dare not;’’ shaking his lion - 
like head, to confirm his good intentions or fixedness of purpose. 

“Mr. Gault,’’ said 1, ‘-forgive my deception. I am not a stran- 
ger to you, and 1 was Ruth’s best friend.’’ 

“Was V* 

‘‘Yes, I can speak of her only in the past. Ruth is dead. 81ie 
•died in poverty, as the wife of Eric Ethel. He became blind 
years before his death. It is for their child, the benefits accruing 
from the book which I contemplate writing. The history of the old 
Southern Mansion and its possessors, especially of her for whom 
you wait in vain. V^ou are laboring under a strange delusion. 
You are rich, the sole possessor of the Aubrey estate. Bring all 


BERENICE. 


401 


the circumstances of the past years back again. You will feel 
the truth of what J say. You will not chaffer with me for what 
1 ask. It is to benefit the child of one who voluntarily resigned 
to you the homestead which your wife bequeathed to her. Ruth’s 
child is a dependant upon the bounty of a stranger.’’ 

‘‘No, no, I will not chafier with you. 1 waken tfoin a dream. 
I thought I was poor, very ])oor. I am indeed the sole heir of 
the estate. Take what I have faithfully kept. She gave it to 
me the morning she left me. In giving to the world the records 
of each life, mine, as the Aubreys, deal fairly — ‘nothing exteuate 
nor set down aught in malice.’ ” 

“I will be just, depend upon it.’’ 

“Just! Say rather ‘I will be merciful.’ Justice is oftenest 
man’s revenge for a common or universal injury. Mercy is God’s 
infinite love and i)ity for mortal weakness. Be merciful rather 
than just !’’ 

* * * * * * * * 

“Berenice visited your house during Mr. Ethel’s stay with 
you ?” 

She would have been always with him had he permitted her to 
be ; but you shall hear how he received her overtures. Looking 
into the immobile face, which the sightless eyes and the extreme 
pallor made a marble one, she said to him : 

“In your dire need I ofter you refuge. The world cares not 
tor you ; the woman you loved can love you no more ; say to me 
now, when your words can harm no one, ‘Out of pity for your 
love, and your sins committed through that love, I will not close 
my heart against you. For a whole life of limitless worship 
give me a few years, or months, or even days. We will go home 
to our Eden j our Eden until the serpent comes.” 

Eric started up, waving her away, with a significant gesture. 

“You misinterpret my words,’’ said she. 

“No, no, I do not. Go from me, Berenice !’’ 

“Ruth AVard was not the serpent.’’ 

“I will listen to nothing more. You malign the dead. ” 

“You shall hear my defence. Y"ou shall not die believing me 
what my father has made me appear. Hear my solemn asserva- 
tion. If you doubt me I have proof to convince you. The chil- 
dren of Victorine Aubrey were the victims of a woman’s mali- 
cious hate. But I never harmed them.’’ 

“Nof’ How provokingly indifferent the word was. She, in- 
dignant at his manner, became excited. 

“Y"ou doubt me i You shall believ^e. Call some into the room 
to testify to you, to the world, my innocence. Let them read the 
dying declaration of the guilty one, whom I shielded, for whom 


402 


BEKENICE. 


1 have borne the ignominy. Js there no magnanimity in my na- 
ture V’ 

“I suppose there is. The world is as yet in ignorance of it. 
Had you not better leave me now ? This is not my home. I am 
here on charity, and cannot expect my visitors to be welcome.”' 

‘‘Home! You simke of home. Home is a sweet word. Yom 
indeed have none. Y^ou are here a dependant ux)on Madame- 
Oardave. 1 am rich; I will cherish and love your boy. Oh,. 
Eric! 1 could but love him. He is so like you! Come to Mount 
jMarah. It will at last be mine. My father is incapable of mak- 
ing a will, therefore I must inherit the Aubrey estate. Have- 
l)ity upon your helplessness and upon your child. Do not bid 
me go hence without you. Come ; you do not hate me 

‘‘Berenice, think for a moment how trivial the matter of love 
or aversion must be to one whose hours are numbered !” 

“Not trivial to me, for if I were dying I Avould choose where 
and with whom to die. Live for me ! Live but a day, an hour,, 
a minute as my own, Eric, I will be content. Eric, gold is a 
mighty king. Do you not know that gold is said to reverse im- 
mutable and fixed laws f ’ 

“Why waste words on what I neither have nor desire to have 

“One skilled in diseases like yours, has promised for you a 
partial, it not an entire cure. Gold may remove the veil which 
shrouds this beautiful world from you.” 

“The world would have no beauty for me since Huth is dead.” 

‘‘Kuth ! Always Ruth ! She cannot keep you 1‘rom cold and 
hunger. I can. You waive me off. YMu shriidv from me. Oh, 
man ! how cruel. Say, wLat sin have 1 committed that was not 
out of my deep love for you 

“Love ! Your feelings live ; ha ! ha ! Not the love 1 know of. 
Not the love of Ruth.” 

“Nor of Eunice, I suppose?” she whispered with trembling- 
lips. 

“Leave me, Berenice ; I am dead to all emotions, all passions^ 
that exalt or lower men’s souls. All save one, and that is hate.” 

“You hate me V 

“With my whole soul. For the wrongs the innocent suffered 
through your love.” 

Poor Berenice ! I pitied her. 

“What a cold man ! AVhat a terrible man !” exclaimed I, 

“Cold ! Not he. The mountains appeared to be snow, but 
within was tire, which at times sent forth a lava tide.” (Madame 
Cardave’s simile was hackneyed, but then she was fresh from a 
volcanic region. 

“At last his troubles ended, in death ?” 


])]:ilKNICE. 


403 


‘‘And ilie last hour Avas hers. She closed the sightless eyes. 
There was no cheating her out of that privilege. I could fancy 
lier saying, as she kissed, wildly, passionately, his lips and brow : 
‘At last, as at first, mine ! Euth Ward is not in all potent power 
here!’” 

After it was all OA er, forgetting our presence, she said in her Avild 
agony : 

“ Euth Avill meet him in Hea\^en, and 1 ” 

“ A^ou Avill be Avith your husband,” interrupted Marie, maliciously. 

She retorted, angry at the words AA'hich had involuntarily escaped 
her lips: 

“ No, not Avith him. Tlie hottest hell for me rather tlian Heaven 
Avith my husband.” 

LAST LEAVES ZILLAh’s PART PLAYED IN THE AURR1:Y HISTORY. 

1 Avas taught from the time I could understand the meaning of 
Avords to hate the race that had killed my father. I ay as told Iioav 
he died and how he looked AA’hen they cut him doAvn from the tree 
Avhere the overseer hung him. We all hated tlie “iieAV master ' — 
Miss Yictorine’s husband. He came to the place to make everything 
go Avrong, and to put a cruel man over the field hands. He didn’t 
care for us, neither did Miss Victorine after she married him. Miss 
Berenice was brought home from school after aAvhile. We all took 
to her and she to us. She used to talk to us and to bring the chil- 
dren nice things from the house. She used to come to the cabins 
of a night and tell us stories and read for us. She told me many a 
time she hated the AA'hite folks in the big, lonesome house, especially 
her father. AVhen Miss Euth came to the house Miss Berenice was 
pretty near crazy. She hated her Avorse than the rest. 1 asked her 
Avhy. She told me she didn’t knoAv Avhy, but she Avas obliged to hate 
her. Miss Euth fell in loA^e with Mr. Ethel and he Avith her. Maybe 
3Iiss Berenice was a half Avitch and kneAv it Avas going to be that 
Ava}". I was glad of the chance of doing anything against the family. 
Miss Berenice Avas not to me one of them. She Avas so difterent in 
her ways. 

The last Avord my mother spoke to me Avas: 

“ Zillah, be even with them for your father’s deatli.” When they 
freed us I aayts the first one sent ofi'. I Avas ‘-sullen and rebellious, ’ 
they said. ^ Freedom Avas no use to me. 

So the old grudge made me go back to them to Avat(‘h my chance 
to hurt them in their hearts as they had hurt me and mine. I poi- 
soned the two children, because Mr. Gault loved them so Avell. I 
did it cautiously. No one helped me. I Avas not sorry jifter it, but 
I Avas afraid. I could not bear to be alone. I used to tremble Avlien 


BEKENICE. 


40 4 

any one called me, or even wlien they looked at me. I sk'pt on the 
floor by the side of Miss Berenice’s bed. She at first objected to it, 
l)iit I plead so hard she consented, saying that of a night I could 
comb her hair and wait on her. In this way she found it all oiit by 
hearing me talk in’ my sleep. She accused me. I confessed, and 
begged her to spare me, telling her how they had killed my father 
and broken my mother’s heart, and thought freedom for the others 
could make up for what they liad done. She ])romised not to be- 
tray me. Her father accused her of the crime ; she was true to me. 
She said: 

‘•'He will not dare tell the world I did it.” 

They will not have a chance to hang me. I now run no risk in 
clearing the innocent. I have treated Miss Berenice badly, for I 
told Mane — Miss Victorine’s maid — that she poisoned the children. 
I was frightened into telling the lie. The servants were continually 
talking of telling what they knew, and a “ snake in the grass.’’ Then 
they would look straight at me. I knew I would have to die if it 
ever came out, so I blamed it upon Miss Berenice. I foresaw that 
Marie would go to Mr. Graidt about it. He would believe anything 
bad of his daughter, and then hush the matter up, rather than hang 
or disgrace his own child 

“ Zillah, you have been a very wicked womUn. Do you hope to 
receive forgiveness V” 

“ I have not told you the worst. I tried to poison ]Miss Ward, but 
that was to do a favor for Miss Berenice ” 

“ A favor ? Did she ask you to poison Miss Ward T' 

“ No; but she said that if Kuth was dead, Mr. Ethel would love 
her as he once did. I thought he would, and I tried to make those 
I loved happy.” 

“ Your cat drank the poison intended for her ?” 

“ My cat ! 1 always thought her death mysterious ! Did i luth 

know of your murderous intentions 

“ To save myself, as before, 1 blamed it upon IMiss Berenice.” 

“ Ruth never told me this.” 

“ She died, believing Berenice the guilty one.’’ 

‘‘ She knows better by this time.”' 

“ In the name of the great and good Father, I hope you have 
done nothing else exclaimed I. 

‘‘ I placed the razors where Miss Victorine found them. They 
were intended as a present for Dr. Moore. I was in the garden one 
night when Miss Ruth had an awful time with Miss YTctorine. I 
wanted her to die because she had let them treat us so bad and kill 
my father and willed her property to a stranger, without giving 
Miss Berenice a dollar. I sent for her a year ago, when I wnis tir.st 
taken ill, and the doctor told me that my sickness was slow but sure ; 


X4 


I 


BERENICE. 


405 


that I could never get well. She has mj full confession, Avritten out 
hy a lawyer who came here with her.” 

‘'What does she think of you? Has she forgiven you 

“I hope so. Only last week she sent me money to keep me until 
I die. When it came out in Court thatl told Marie a lie about her, 
she went on at me awfully. ‘Coward I’ said she, ‘you had better 
have hung on the highest gibbet than have criminated me. Did 
I not shield you from my father’s vengeance ? Did I not save you 
irom a just but fearful death T We have all been unjust to her; 
even her own husband Avas deceived. The poison he took from 
her hand she had just taken from mine. She never explained, 
she never tried to clear herself, she never cared what be thought 
of her.’’ 

“Ah ! Madame Cardave, your letter sets me thinking. How 
time dies ! Hortense has a daughter married ! Married to Ituth’s 
son, too. I do not wonder at the result of their constant intercourse 
Avith each other from childhood. Is she as fair as her mother ? 
Hortense was lovely in her girlhood. You say that Ruth’s 
son inherits his mother’s virtues and his father’s grand physique 
without his weakness and irresolution, which brought so much 
sin and sorrow. Retribution for him was swift and sure. Poor ! 
Blind ! Left alone in the pitiless world. Mercy came so late to 
pour balm into the bleeding wounds !” 

The old mansion, with its “rats and wraiths” has been pulled 
down. We may expect something remarkable in the way of 
jarchitectural completeness upon the site, since the son of Bere- 
nice, young Cyril Moore, has the choice of plans for the building. 
As the sole heir of the Aubrey estate, setting aside his connec- 
tion by marriage with the drst families of the South, he isanim- 
l)ortant personage. 

I forgot to tell you in my last that Rudolph Gault and Berenice 
never met after her return from Paris. They died within a month 
of each other, and were buried in the tomb of the Aubreys with 
poor Yictorine. 


THE END. 








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